


That Unwanted Animal

by CapriciousKapro



Series: The Beauty, The Bard, and The Beast [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (offscreen) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Transformation, Autistic Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bathing/Washing, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Body Dysphoria, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has ADHD, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Multi, Multi POV, Mute Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Overstimulation, POV Roach (The Witcher), Scents & Smells, Skin Hunger, Solitary Confinement, TDLR relationship tag: Geralt/Jaskier/Triss/Yen, Temporarily Mute Character, The Witcher Netflix Series Spoilers, Timeline What Timeline, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved Jaskier | Dandelion, Wolf Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, borrows characterization from all sources, but special mention to, hints of Tissaia/Triss/Yen and Geralt/Eskel but probably not enough worth tagging, this is right on the cusp of teen instead of mature but I'm rounding up to be safe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 65,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27389785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapriciousKapro/pseuds/CapriciousKapro
Summary: Geralt’s encounter with Stregobor goes a little differently, and he finds himself alone in a grand castle, cursed to a bestial form. First, enter Jaskier: pursued by a bear, then an injured Yennefer and Triss, post-battle of Sodden Hill. Ciri finds them last, completing their little family. As Geralt succumbs to the curse, family new and old will band together to seek his cure.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Triss Merigold, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii/Jaskier | Dandelion/Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu, Jaskier | Dandelion/Triss Merigold, Jaskier | Dandelion/Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: The Beauty, The Bard, and The Beast [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2000887
Comments: 42
Kudos: 108





	1. Oh What’s the time Mr Wolf?

“If I have to choose between one evil and another, then I prefer not to choose at all.”

Geralt turns to leave, but Stregobor crashes forward, a hand fisted at the collar of his armor. “No. You must see reason, witcher. I’ll make sure of that.”

When the grip falters, Geralt twists, smashes his elbow against his temple, but Stregobor is already chanting in Elder, sending his wolf medallion humming and rocking against his chest in warning. He casts aard with one hand, draws steel in the other, and Stregobor staggers back into the fountain, head striking stone. Blood flows freely and the illusion falters around them, women and vegetation falling away to plain walls, but Stregobor chants still, eyes fixated on Geralt, hand poised and ready to cast.

Geralt advances. Moves in for a killing blow, then leaps back like a startled cat as a portal opens in the few inches left between them. Geralt sidesteps, sees Stregobor rising to his feet, blood blinding him in one eye and dripping into his mouth but words unfaltering. He drags a knuckle across bloodied lips, and there’s triumph in his gaze as the spell comes to a crescendo. The coalescence of magic releases in a thunderous wave, and as the world fades to black, Geralt curses mages, Blaviken, and himself most of all.

\---

He wakes slow, achingly. Geralt hasn’t been this sore since running the Gauntlet, and his head throbs like the worst of hangovers—he could imagine Black Gull leaving him in this state, though he himself never partook. Cracking open an eye takes monumental force, and it feels for all the world as if gravity has shifted on its axis, trying to pull him into a black hole behind his temple. He jerks upward, trying to take stock of his surroundings. Instead, taut leather digs into his wrists.

“Awake! Good; I haven’t much time, witcher. It’s the least I can do, though, you see,” Stregobor steps into view. “Do you know where you are?” He paces as if examining the room, raps a hand against wooden bedposts then turns his back to Geralt.

Geralt glares. His mouth tastes like sand, feels just as dry. Whatever games the mage wants to play, he’ll have no part in it.

“Right then. This,” he says, the word punctuated with a sweeping flourish, “is the ancient and noble house of Narok.”

He takes in the thick dust, the tang of old blood hanging in the air, the moth-eaten sheets. “Abandoned. Nobody’s been here in years.”

Stregobor acts out this superfluous performance for two, pivoting toward Geralt. “Clever one, aren’t you! Yes. You see, witcher, this is the ruling home of Narok. And yet…”

“Get to the point.”

“Patience, witcher. How can I be sure you’ll learn your lesson if I neglect to lay it out in the plainest terms?”

“Thought I was clever?”

It’s Stregobor’s turn to glare. “As I was saying. The royal family here took in a girl, a child of the Black Sun. Instead of gratitude, she repaid them by slaughtering them all,” he lectures, taking agitated strides around the bed Geralt is strapped to. “Then our Lady of Narok takes off, disappears into the night before anyone capable of dealing with her is the wiser.” Stregobor looks down at him. “I will do what I can about Renfri. You have the end of the year to decide.”

“Decide?” Geralt has no intentions of killing a girl who’s done no worse than him in the name of survival, only drawing attention by having the bad luck to be born on a solar eclipse. But if Stregobor wants to talk, he’ll let him talk.

“Your… humanity has been tied to the life of this castle. I expect you will lose yourself after first frost. Unless,” he says, and pulls a fist-sized crystal from his robes. Sets it on a three-pronged stand, already in place on the nightstand. “Unless you shatter this crystal, wherewith I will be alerted to the fact you have had your change of heart, and will dispose of our little butcherbird.”

“If I don’t?”

Stregobor’s smile is a twisted, wry thing. Too malicious and pleased to mean anything good for him. “You’ll see soon enough, witcher. And don’t bother trying to leaving the castle, hmm? You’ll not have any luck there.”

Geralt snarls and thrashes. The pain of awakening hasn’t subsided, but he makes a last, weak bid at freeing himself from his bonds.

“Now, now. It’s far too late for that.”

Another wave of magic crashes into him. His head cracks against the wall, and Geralt slumps into unconsciousness.

\---

Geralt wakes in the dead of the night, unbound and alone. He staggers to his feet, massages his wrists in an idle motion. Takes inventory. His swords, armor, medallion, shoes—everything is gone, stripped to nothing but his shirt and pants. The stone floor seeps cold. He’s never felt more naked, can’t remember the last time he was without his medallion.

Shaking off the concussion is harder than he’d like to admit, but he presses on, venturing through the skeletal castle at a cautious pace. The space is far from charming with some areas charred and ashen, long-since dried blood in half the rooms, and the overall sights and smells of abandonment (though he suspects the lack of any other clothing article, shoes included, to be on Stregobor rather than the world’s most persistent moths). He moves downward, out of the residential rooms.

The rooms open up wider, less bloodied and only passingly scorched. Geralt finds the entry hall, windows and caved-in benches and the simulacrum of rugs dotting the space. The double doors of the entrance are heavy and tall, interlaced with warped wood and unaffected brass inlays. He tugs at the handle, Stregobor’s words ringing, but it opens without trouble. One foot through the threshold, a success.

But his foot brushes patchy weeds, and a shock arcs across his skin from that point of contact. He jolts back, body wracked with spasms. It’s pins and needles, like a thousand ants. A touch of lightning crackling and snapping under his skin. The world lurches and rolls, and he’s only on his knees. Five seconds. Just… A breath. On the next inhale, he pushes past tremors onto unsteady feet. Exhale. A shaking hand splayed against the door frame.

Drugs, concussions, stripped bare, and now magical electrocutions. No more visits to Blaviken—not for the next century if he has any say in it. (He might not. While he wouldn’t do it for himself, he’d do it to keep Roach fed and he knows it.)

Geralt retrieves his hand and rights himself fully, staring outside with bone-deep resignation and a sprinkling of nausea. One deep breath, two, and quen; a brace for impact. Geralt throws himself outside, meaning to duck into a roll.

He never makes it that far. The electricity sparks white-hot, tosses him back like a swipe from a forktail and shattering quen as if it were no more than a soap bubble. He hits the ground heaving and trembling. Fingers twitch erratically. His vision wavers, then returns settled on the threadbare rug underfoot, consumed by moth and flame alike.

True then, that he was stuck here. Which gave weight to the rest of Stregobor’s words. Stuck, and perhaps six months until he loses his humanity. What would happen? He sounded certain Geralt would know. He doesn’t. Not yet, anyways.

He can only work with what he has, and that encompasses far too little for his taste.

Geralt rises from the floor, carefully closes the door behind him. As long as he don’t touch ground across the threshold, he appears to be safe. Next he’d have to test a window, see if the spell was truly locking him to the property or if it only extended to the front door. He dips a finger into the bay window framing the entry, estimating the seal’s strength then the glass’s under his palm. A steel sword would make easy work of it, but in lack of one… The furniture in the room is all cloth and wood, and the chairs too brittle to be worth testing the mettle of. The kitchen, then. There he’ll find something to take a swing with. He turns to walk out of the room, but something outside catches his eye: a strong wind has sent wildflowers and overgrown ornamentals swaying. The life of the castle, gone by the first frost? It had to be.

His humanity tied to a bunch of flowers. Geralt curses Stregobor and stalks out of the room.

He finds a dining room before the kitchen. A long wooden table and wide braziers sit at either end of the hall, though there’s nothing but soot and ash coating either. Yet a new scent demands his attention with his next inhale. It’s fresh, thick in the air. Woodsy and metallic both. Two more steps, and he spots the source: an open, woven basket near the far brazier, piled with meat. Another bowl rests aside it. Closer he walks, and the ozone and plasma reach him. The scent of magic. He kneels next to the offending objects.

The basket and wide-mouthed ceramic bowl next to it are both too plain and too clean to belong to the original inhabitants. He raises the bowl to his lips, takes but a mouthful of water. He wants more, the sip already washing away the cottony thickness settled in the back of his throat, and he doesn’t think Stregobor would go to all this trouble just to tamper with what might be his only food and water supply, but he has to be sure. The water smells and tastes pure enough, a wash of minerals perhaps a bit coppery (or was there blood in his mouth?) but otherwise inoffensive he thinks. Hopes. Doesn’t want to be drugged again after all. Still, he’ll look for another water source if it comes down to it. But something tells him this is merely one more step in Stregobor’s plans. If he can’t leave, he can’t hunt. And he has to be alive if he’s to kill Renfri for him.

The kitchen proves fruitful—on his hunt for something sizable to break a window with, rather than containing any fruit in particular—and he returns to the dining hall with a metal pot. He ignores the middle, decorative window with its stained glass faintly washing the room in color. It’s pretty, and the jointed panes would make it harder to create a witcher-sized hole regardless.

The window in the corner is plain glass, no extra adornments. He approaches it. Grasps the pot by its rim. Weighs it up, and scrutinizes the window comparatively. Strikes.

The glass shatters, more onto the grass outside than the stone below. Another blow to each corner and he has the frame clear of enough glass to test his luck. He’ll have to watch his step; doesn’t fancy digging glass out of his feet. Without further ado, Geralt casts quen, steadies himself on his back foot, and sets the other on the earth outside.

The same electric shock as before ripples through quen first, then his body, like the insurmountable crash of an ocean wave. Glass tears through trousers and skin from his involuntary jerk. Geralt groans, more frustration than pain. He disentangles the threads from where they’ve caught on sharp corners, carefully retracts his leg.

Backing away a healthy distance from the scattered glass shards, Geralt checks the cut. It’s thin enough he shouldn’t have to worry, but he presses against his thigh to hurry the process along all the same.

Geralt considers the likelihood of escape. Of the enchantments wearing off. Where Roach might be, what Stregobor might have done to her. His missing medallion.

“Fuck.”

\---

He lets himself rest for two nights, scouring every inch of the castle for anything useful in the meantime. There’s plenty of small kitchen knives and one larger for butchering. Those—alongside the pot he broke the window with—are the most versatile makeshift weapons he finds. Curious that he finds two wooden swords untouched by fire propped in an otherwise emptied guard room, but unhelpful to his cause. Those are deposited in what is grudgingly becoming _his_ bedroom in his mind.

On the morning of his third day here, it’s time to break the crystal. He enters the dining hall, sets the delicate bauble on the table. Goes over his arrangements one last time. He’ll fight with the butcher knife and a chef’s knife, while the rest of the knives and the metal pot are tucked away nearby. At worst, there’s a dozen wooden chairs within easy reach, and Stregobor wears finery, not armor.

Geralt hefts the butcher knife in one hand, the smaller blade and crystal in the other, then throws. The crystal connects with the wall below the smashed window. It shatters like a broken geode, each half skidding across the room, spewing a thin mist. It rains tiny shards across nearly half the room. Perhaps thrown with more force than necessary…

The mist dissipates. He holds his ground. Nothing.

“Damn it, Stregobor!” Nothing could ever be easy with these mages, could it?

An hour passes, then two, three. Geralt refuses to be caught off guard, but eventually he settles into a meditative stance, a knife at each side. Noon winks by. Dusk. Eventually, after midnight comes and goes, he rises, keeping hold of the butcher knife, and drinks deeply from the water. Neither the food nor meat had harmed him, and he needs to be prepared for this fight, if he ever comes.

Considering the lengths Stregobor had gone to already, Geralt suspects he’s biding his time. Two can play at that game.

But eight days pass.

And then he sleeps.

\---

Geralt wakes to a slap in the face, jerks awake with leather biting his wrists and ankles. His head is fuzzy, and it takes too long to coax his eyes into focusing.

Stregobor is standing over him. “Something tells me you had every intention of killing me and not Renfri. Precautions, you see? Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“Fuck you,” he snarls. The words are slurred and sluggish. He tries to cast aard, but the haze of drugs and residual sleep deprivation is too much. The current passes over Stregobor like a gentle breeze.

“Hmm. Those crystals are valuable, you know. Best not do it again. I won’t be so… generous next time.”

Geralt needs to—needs to do something. But exhaustion and oily magic coats him, driving him back into unconsciousness.

\---

His next brush with the waking world is just as jarring for entirely different reasons. Geralt knows his body. It’s a tool and weapon, and he spent years honing it with as much attention as he gives every weapon he carries. So when he wakes, he knows something is wrong.

First, the tug at the base of his spine. Pinching, and something else too, like there’s a snake wriggling beneath him. Then, the way his nails catch as he tries to divest himself of the thin, moth-eaten sheet. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The sheet splits down the middle.

The loss of humanity has caught up to him. His feet are malformed, ankle stretched too long, and he can’t see his skin beyond the thick, white fur. The—fuck— _his_ tail is being crushed, pinched and uncomfortable. He shoves the sheet off entirely, scrambles upright, takes all of two seconds to ensure he won’t fall the moment he stands, and tugs off his pants. (As frantic as he is, he’s careful not to tear them any more than they already are; they’re his only pair in all the castle, after all.)

There’s instant physical relief, and a wolf’s tail as white as snow, swishes beside him. It moves on its own accord. Soft fur mingles at the back of his thighs. He feels the stretch at the base of his spine as it twists and flicks, sensation all the more terrifying for feeling natural, comfortable and automatic. Gods, what had Stregobor done to him? Geralt breaks out of his frozen retreat, a snarl curling his lip, and snatches his tail with a firm grasp. His face slackens as the double sensation catches up to him, tail feeling the hand on him, pained by his tight grip.

He staggers back, the raised ridge of his ankle colliding with the side of the bed, and he sags into the mattress which dips low under his weight. He lifts a foot. Deliberately doesn’t look down until he has it resting on the bed. Had it not been attached to him and at least twice the size it it would be on the average canine, he wouldn’t call it anything other than a normal wolf paw. An involuntary move to trace a finger between the pads of his toes has him flinching. The texture is unfamiliar, and each touch of his upper body to his lower cements reality just a bit deeper.

Was that his fate? To become a werewolf by fall’s end? This was no run of the mill curse, transforming him piece by piece, but it’s ingenious, he’ll give Stregobor that. How long would he keep his mind? How long before he’d quicker devour the next unwitting traveler in lieu of talking? He needs to account for that, needs to prepare a room that could hold a bestial form.

He’s been outsmarted. The least he can do is keep innocent lives out of his demise.


	2. And the door below it splinters / And the creature creeps inside

Jaskier has a stitch in his side and minutes to live. He can’t decide if he needs both hands to run, or if it’s more economical to keep one hand on his lute so it stops thumping around. The bear lumbering towards him at unholy speeds keeps him from thinking too hard on such a conundrum, however. Keeping his entire form and figure safe is marginally more important than ensuring his poor lute doesn’t end up dented.

He’s not confident he can manage either, that being said.

Sweat drips into his eye and he lets slip a tiny hiss of precious breath, dares to wipe it off his brow. Is his music really so miserable even the animals take offense? Perhaps he should have never been a bard at all. Nobody appreciates his efforts, human or beast.

He’s sticking to the overgrown dirt path as best he can. The threat of the roaring, incensed bear sends him tripping and swerving around odd vegetation whenever he glances back. His only saving grace is the sorry beast seems to encountered a poacher’s trap, front paw mangled wretchedly. Occasionally, it slows just long enough to voice its anger with increased mettle. The sound vibrates through Jaskier. If he survives this, he must write about the dangers of enraged bears. Certainly, he would have preferred going into this forest better informed! _The thump you hear, my heartbeat in fear? Not at all, for it is the bear’s great paws and the snap of his claws._

A corner turned. Jaskier trips over a root, and his face mashes into a—an open gatehouse? Oh, dearest sanctuary! Beyond the portcullis, a wooden gate, tall twin doors. He can’t get open the blasted thing fast enough, hands shaking with the most harrowing excursion of his short life, but open it does. Jaskier closes it even quicker, and in his favor too. Only one desperate inhale later, and the wood shudders and moans, louder than a lover in throes of passion. Grumbling, scratching, then nothing but lumbering breaths on both sides.

The gate splinters with the next blow.

Jaskier swivels, plants a hand on his lute, and takes off running. The castle ahead looks altogether decrepit, but even if those doors fail to hold, he’s sure there will be hallways thin enough that this massive creature should fail to worm its way through. Plenty of beds to hide under. Anything but this open, half-charred moor! Behind him, he hears the gates crash. He swears he can feel the vibration of the maimed wood as it collapses into the earth, but maybe that’s just the bear again. He doesn’t look back.

Closer, closer, and… His shoulder hits the door to the castle with a thud, reverberating through wood and flesh both. Tears fill his eyes at the hot ache, but he scrabbles for the handle regardless. Futile, with shaking hands and waning strength.

The door opens; Jaskier pitches forward. Strong arms catch him and he could cry—is crying from sheer relief of it.

“Move!”

Jaskier barely has time to see his rescuer before he’s shoved unceremoniously to the side. He stumbles, but follows the motion, skittering half-steps back until reaching the far wall.

Perhaps he should leave the room, but his sides are heaving and the fight before him is almost as confusing as it is mesmerizing. Brown and white smash together in furious blows. Blood splatters, bestrewing his shoes, and the spray catches his eye but a moment. When he looks up, it’s to a peculiar glow. The bear seems to hesitate; the man does not.

More blood, and it’s over.

And that—that’s not a man.

He’s crouched over the slumped body, sniffing the brown ruff of the bear’s neck. “Berserker,” he hears mumbled, but the words are not meant for him, he thinks. The voice is a low rumble, almost a growl in itself. A tail flicks on the ground beside him, back and forth like a cat with prey.

Jaskier shivers and takes a damp sleeve to his dripping face. Scrubs off tears and sweat and looks again. White fur from head to foot. Though some atop his head looks more akin to hair, it flows past his nape and flows across his shoulders like a mane or white river falls. Then, the not-man’s eyes meet his. Gold, molten and bright in the daylight streaming through open doors. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen before, and he can’t tear his eyes away.

His rescuer can, though. He glances towards the body, but it seems less in examination and more an excuse. His entire torso twists away from Jaskier. Afraid he’d say, as if this towering being couldn’t snap him in half with a thought. But… Jaskier takes a step closer, pushing off the wall. His white-furred savior goes tall and taut akin to a frightened fawn. What an oddity! Scared? Of him? Well, he can’t have that, now can he?

“My, that was splendid of you! Very daring and heroic, if I might say so myself. I’m Jaskier, by the way. A humble and grateful troubadour at your service, dear fellow. Would you tell this bard your name, so I might thank you properly?”

“Geralt.”

And ooh, the voice again, low and rumbling. Jaskier could get used to that. Intends to, in fact, if Geralt seems in any way amiable. (Does he sing? Jaskier would love nothing more than to hear such a melody.)

What a being! He’s never seen nor heard of such a creature in all his travels, twining horns framing his face like a forest god and his luxurious fur, bloodied or no, looks softer than silk. Beyond exploring his own curiosity, he owes it to Geralt to repay what he can, how he can. The most apparent way in which he cannot is coin, after all, and the most obvious is in song and good company.

He takes another step forward, projecting each movement and keeping his body language open and loose. “Thank you for saving my life, Geralt.”

Instead of looking heroic again or comforted or any such nice things, Geralt runs. It’s not a full sprint, but his strides are too quick, too long and Jaskier, still in a pitiful state after his unwanted jaunt through the forest, can barely keep up.

“Wait!” His plea goes unanswered.

Jaskier detests the thought of Geralt running from him of all people, and only by channeling that emotion does he manage that final dash forward to place a hand on Geralt’s arm.

It’s already becoming less surprising, seeing this massive form freeze up at his presence.

“Please,” he says. “At least…” His eyes glance down at the ruby-stained fur. “At least allow me to help you wash up. If it were not for me, you wouldn’t be dirty after all.”

Their shallow breaths mingle in the silence, though Jaskier’s is only from exhaustion. Geralt seems to be… steeling himself? His eyes bore into Jaskier’s, and though a shiver overtakes him again—he himself could benefit from a bath, come to think of it. Wash all this dreaded cold sweat away and leave it in the past. But he holds steady the golden gaze and waits.

His reward is a conflicted acquiescence, a barely discernible nod. Geralt strides off, or maybe this is how he walks, but his great height makes it feel like so much more to Jaskier, who scrambles to stick to his side. Geralt collects a bowl from a grand if desolate dining hall. One window is shattered completely, and the rest of the room is hardly in a better state. Dust pools on the table so thick it could be paint on a canvas, and half the chairs are shoved unceremoniously into the far corners. But high ceilings, stained glass, and fading art scored into the walls speak to times these halls might have flourished. What a sight it must have been, rich and warm!

Jaskier shifts his attention and, oh—Geralt is waiting for him this time, not pushing ahead heedless of his shorter companion. Jaskier flashes a smile, goes for charming and must fall short because there’s a clench of his jaw and downturn of lips. But he walks on, and Jaskier follows.

The tub he’s led to has similarly seen better days, but it holds water and Geralt—

“What is that?” he exclaims, because Geralt is getting a tub’s worth of water out of that tiny bowl.

Geralt shrugs, almost a delicate motion despite broad shoulders and the perturbed scratch of claws against cloth that follows, a repeated motion ground into his torn pants.

Jaskier sets his lute case down across the room before shimmying closer, peering curiously at the bowl from all angles. And if it happens to put him at Geralt’s side, well, the man would have to become accustomed to him at some point, now wouldn’t he?

The tub fills, and Jaskier keeps an intent watch on Geralt. If he had such an intriguing solution for the water, perhaps he has plans for heating it as well? If Jaskier expects the unexpected, he’ll be taken aback by his friend’s novelties less often, he hopes.

He’s wrong in the best of ways. Geralt doesn’t put a hand on his chest, but it’s a near thing, hovering an inch off his doublet. Jaskier takes the hint and steps back several paces, and Geralt unleashes a low gout of flame. It rolls off his hand with no more difficulty than the water out of the bowl, a cascade of unrepentant fire delving into tepid water. Truly, wonders would never cease around his new friend. Geralt keeps the flame at a shallow angle, well away from the worn wooden frame. Plenty of steam hisses up, a flurry of furious hissing and sputtering droplets, but it tapers off within seconds of the magic’s release. Geralt dips a finger in, then his fist. Apparently to his tastes, because he strips before Jaskier can even think to offer him privacy. There isn’t one animal that quite captures Geralt’s visage, but his lower half is all wolf, sweeping tail and all. Upper… There’s something leonine in his face, but that could be the great mane of hair and fur tangling together. His horns he might guess are that of an antelope, ears perhaps following suit. The ribbed horns arch back with an elegant sweep, and that’s all he gleans before Geralt sinks into the water with a muffled sound of pleasure, everything from the shoulders down shrouded in water, encased behind the tub.

Probably for the best. Jaskier doesn’t want to become too interested too quickly in such a magnificent being that he is about to bathe with his own two hands in the most comfortable form of intimacy he knows…

Right. Bathing. He looks around the room—

“There isn’t any. Soap.”

“Oh dear, none at all?” Jaskier twists toward his lute case, but aborts the motion within a quarter-turn. Bears or berserkers or what-have-yous and supplies abandoned in favor of running for his life, right. At least the river he had been following closely (though only previous to the bear sighting) would make finding them again quite simple, should be put his mind to it.

Three steps forward and his knees connect with the side of the tub. “I can’t help but notice, Geralt,” he says, placing a hand on his shoulder, “that your household is a little… lacking in amenities. Have you lived here long?” He’s ever so tense, muscles bunched with as much give as compacted stone.

Geralt seems disinclined to answer, nary a physical response and much less a verbal. Jaskier kneels behind him. Was it shame that clamped his jaw shut? Unlikely that the castle was his own, but surely squatting could not be the only thing plaguing his mind.

Ever a man of his word, whetted and unsated curiosity or no, Jaskier trails his hand through damp fur. Lets his hand catch hair and bundles it, sets it aside. One hand sweeps across his neck for straggling strands, the other settles feather light on the opposite shoulder. Geralt isn’t relaxed, but nor does he pull away which enough for now. He casts a hand back-forth against knotted flesh, spanning the length of his intended canvas. Geralt makes a fine statue under his touch. The fur is as soft as it looks, and Jaskier moves with slow, deliberate strokes in the makings of a massage rather than cleanup. Geralt appears a man of action, and he trusts he can butter him up without words—though a tune slips through parted lips, and Jaskier is pleased to find Geralt unperturbed (or at least unreactive) as lyrics creep through. _Would have stayed if you’d had asked. / But instead you just walk past._

In truth, he takes it as a compliment that Geralt has yet to bolt outright, though one misstep may be all it takes. Jaskier has it on the good authority of many denizens across the continent his massages are divine, however, and suspects his skills are enough to tame Geralt’s troubles, at least for a time. Geralt might just agree, the way he slinks deeper into the bath as he toils on in the forthcoming minutes, not coiled like a serpent ready to strike but the demeanor of a very tired man in need of a friendly touch or two. Perhaps he could continue offering these uncomplicated pleasures another day, but this is good enough for their ablutions. He offers a few more fleeting strokes and winds the song into wordless tune.

Bearing more caution and decorum than he traditionally possesses, Jaskier switches tasks with deliberate and projected movements and a gentling, “Alright now,” fingertips grazing along his shoulder until they clasp milk-white locks.

Geralt shuffles forward in the tub, tilts his head back. Accommodating his actions, condoning them.

His tune now transitions into a slower ballad, a song of heroics and love not meant to be, while his fingers tease through stiff, tangled hair. Jaskier decides it is of unequivocal importance that he doesn’t tug, not once, and lets each knot drift apart in its own time, only coaxing and never demanding. A handful of times he dares break the pattern with a tender scrape of nails along Geralt’s nape. He raises his fingers between each stroke, only presses downward with the flow of the fur. He doesn’t tarry long, but Geralt makes no noise of protest and instead moves when and where Jaskier’s hands guide him. Once, he dares touch a velveteen ear, but it earns him an involuntary twitch of the ear and shake of the head and Jaskier doesn’t broach the subject again, not hands nor words.

“Five months,” Geralt confesses to him, so long since between question and answer it takes Jaskier the span of three breaths to place the information. “Not mine.” A toss of the wrist above water, a rotation toward the room encasing them.

“Who’s then?” What could bring such a lonely man to such an isolated castle? Why stay, when he seems so troubled, ill at ease with the walls around him? His hands have long-stilled, fingers intertwined in unruly hair and poised against the base of his skull.

The noise Geralt makes, a low hmm in the back of his throat, vibrates so thickly Jaskier feels the tremble of it in his fingertips.

“Well, how about you and I clean this place up a bit? I don’t have much on my person, but I’m sure together we can come up with something. Would you like that? Perhaps we can make these halls a touch homier.”

“Hmm.”

“I haven’t seen much yet, but might I propose we start with the dining hall? It is, after all, a mite bit drafty.”

“Hmm.”

A fond smile creeps across Jaskier’s face. Those hums of his are sounding quite relaxed. On the verge of falling asleep, even.

“Give me your arm, dear. Your hair is looking positively silken, I’d say it’s as clean as we’re getting without soaps and oils.”

Geralt shifts then resettles against the wall of the tub, re-trapping his hair between flesh and wood in his languid recline. The dripping limb is drawn from the depths of the bath.

“There we go,” he murmurs. There’s less blood on this arm than his other, so he massages and lets the dirt and detritus wash away at its own pace, not tugging, not a hint of impatience. Geralt’s eyes are shut—his face is in full view at this angle—and he’s somewhere between sleepy and blissed-out. The amount of trust he’s putting in Jaskier is heartwarming. A far cry from the skittish display in the entry hall. “When I got here, what were you so afraid of?” His voice barely scrapes a whisper, a ghost of breath and sliver of noise. Geralt’s ear twitches anyways, presses close to his scalp.

“I’m cursed. Like the berserker.” He watches Jaskier with the attention of a circling hawk now, vestiges of sleep falling away in seconds, a stark contrast to the time it took getting there.

Jaskier sits on the edge of the tub to move off the wrist and onto a clawed hand, working each joint over with deep strokes and waiting for Geralt to find the words.

He doubts he’s aware of it, but Geralt is working his lip over with sharp canines, tongue flicking out and examining the pointed teeth in-between worried nips. His brow is furrowed, gaze vacant. “You’re the first person I’ve seen since. Didn’t know what I’d do. Might’ve attacked.”

Jaskier pauses his ministrations, straightens as his eyes snap to Geralt’s. “Not a soul in five months?”

Geralt hums and looks away in what might be a shake of the head. Jaskier takes it as affirmation.

“That sounds altogether lonely. You can’t leave this place?” The hinted former grandeur of these halls tilts slightly in his mind. A prison with gilded halls, still a prison yet.

“Tried that. Can’t set a foot outside.”

“Oh you poor dear.” His hand still cradles Geralt’s, and he squeezes, slips their fingers together. Geralt permits it with grace, only a twitch of acknowledgment that presses their palms closer. “It’s a good thing you have me now! There will be song in these halls this very night, I promise you.”

“Why?” Geralt frowns at him as if he’s trying to solve a mystery of the universe.

“Why sing? It’s what I do, my greatest of passions!”

“Stay. You… intend on staying.” The words are half question.

Jaskier detangles their hands, rises from his genuflect to perch on the edge of the tub. One hand against the rim for stability, and with the other he reaches for Geralt’s cheek, half outstretched and ready to abort the motion if Geralt so wishes.

Instead of guarded, he gets curious, watching eyes, flicking from hand to face. No tensing up, no rejection. Alert, but still welcoming in his open, languid sprawl of limbs.

Jaskier follows through to slide his hand from chin to cheek. He’s still altogether in awe of his fur, soft and thick, truly luscious. His thumb brushes along his jaw, tracing the line of it beneath the fur. “I have never known anyone like you, Geralt. You save my life, and expect me to, what? Spit on you? You’ve been nothing but accommodating of this bard, and I have grown road-weary. I desire little else than your company, and to indulge my curiosities and song. Is that not enough? Do I need some grand plan?”

“Most people do,” Geralt says, a thread of sorrow in his voice. Jaskier hopes to unravel it, one stitch at a time.

“I dare say I am not most people.” If he was, maybe he wouldn’t have been kicked out of taverns across the continent, of Oxenfurt, of his home. But he doesn’t fit in, and neither does Geralt, at least not under the visage of his curse. Perhaps they could not fit in together, if the rest of the world designs to shun them at every turn. “Now tell me, what exactly is this ‘berserker’ of yours?”

Geralt perks up at this, sitting straighter as he explains in full detail how berserkers, also known as werebears, go about transformation. Then, how to kill them. Despite the topic’s oddity, Geralt makes no mention of where his encyclopedic knowledge comes from.

Jaskier ignores this strangeness, only noting one more mystery to unravel in good time, and seamlessly shifts from shoulder to arm while listening attentively to Geralt’s rundown. While he has no intentions of encountering another of its kind, the material has the makings of a song. It’s also comforting, in a roundabout way, to know his music didn’t disturb the man-turned-beast. Slated for breakfast either way, but the blame rests on the bloodlust and rage innate to their second form.

As words fill the air, lute-calloused fingers card through bloodied fur. He pulls individual strands between fingertips, moving with the grain and encouraging fresher blood and older grime to fall away under his care. There’s a bite on his forearm, but Geralt waves his concern off. He’s already informed Jaskier that werebears don’t transfer their curse upon bite, but one would think a man would be marginally more concerned at having a not-bear sinking its teeth into flesh. Though, Jaskier admits to himself and adds one more tally to his mystery box, the wound veers towards pink and shiny where it peaks out from under white fur, rather than the raw red of a recent gouge. All the same, Geralt is unfazed and Jaskier will trust in the judgment of his curiouser and curiouser new friend. It may be in his nature to fret, but without open bleeding, there’s little to be done but clean the wound.

Jaskier does so at his own pace, skittish brushes around the ring of tooth-marred flesh. Geralt’s free hand comes down atop his own, enveloping his own with room to spare. Jaskier freezes, but there’s a slight curl to his mouth and a softening of the eyes that speaks to fondness, not irritation.

Geralt guides their joint hands over the bite. His fingers dig into Jaskier’s own, applying several times more pressure than he himself had dared. “I won’t break, bard.”

Jaskier hums and complies, scrubbing the wound at or just shy of the pressure shown to him while monitoring Geralt’s expression for any sign of pain. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

Geralt offers a loose shrug with his free arm, more registering to Jaskier as _Well, what can you do?_ than a no.

Biting back his worry, Jaskier cleans the wound, quick and thorough as one can be without soap. What kind of life did Geralt lead before the curse, that he’s so used to this pain? Was the familiarity with berserkers and killing something that came before, or after, and most of all, would asking breach their fragile trust?

Soon. In the next few days, perhaps. Their friendship is but delicate candlelight, a glimmering spot in the dark that gives them a destination, but not the stumbling blocks between this side of the room and the other. Once it grows into a torch’s light, strong enough to see foul weather and make it out burning still, then he will ask freely. For now, he dares not risk a faint gust smothering what is yet budding.

They dip into comfortable silence—well, as close to it as Jaskier gets when singing under his breath is as natural as breathing—as Jaskier cleans around ragged claws. Geralt’s hand is still mannish, but the base of the claw protrudes from his fingertips rather than overlaying it as a nail would. The one at his thumb is nearly as thick around as Jaskier’s pinky. He takes care to rub each one clean before releasing the furred limb. That’s it for his upper body, then.

“Would you like to do the rest?” he offers, uncertain of where Geralt might find his boundaries tested.

Geralt hums with a considering, perhaps contemplative tone, which isn’t particularly helpful here. He’d much rather hear a definitive yes or no.

Before he can request one, Geralt stands in the tub with droplets both clinging and flying off his body, and Jaskier scrambles back. The cause for such becomes clear as he summons up the flames from earlier, directing them towards his feet. He casts almost as long as he did earlier, tempered flame elevating the lukewarm bathwater to swelling heat. Even before the steam subsides, Geralt slinks down into the tub and pulls his knees up. “You stink.”

Jaskier gapes. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know—”

“I—” Geralt shakes his head rapidly, as if dislodging an errant thought. “No.” A grimace, and hands raised in surrender. “I mean. Join me?”

Oh. The tub is certainly big enough, the nobility here well-invested in their furnishings. And Jaskier could use a bath. He steps closer to Geralt, crouches as to be at eye-level. What is he doing here? A cursed human saves him from another cursed human, and he, what? It’s not obligation that tethers him to the spot, not out of pity he combs loosely through Geralt’s hair as he mulls over the proposition. No, Jaskier is lonely. And Geralt—Geralt is too, he thinks. He can hardly imagine otherwise, as isolated as he’s been. In light of that, it’s understandable that Geralt forgot how people work a bit, why he let Jaskier push this far without resistance. Why his invitation sounds half insult, but feels more like a plea.

Gold eyes search his own, a wide and vulnerable expression he’s sure he’s mirroring. Jaskier looks away with pursed lips, but his thumb is at Geralt’s temple and fingers idly, methodically twining in Geralt’s hair yet.

Jaskier, he’s the one that seeks out and peruses, that takes and takes as much as his bedfellows have to give until the morning comes and he sneaks away like a thief in the night, clinging to warm and friendly touches wherever he can get them. He craves so deeply, desperately and it’s never enough. Left alone, the itch under his skin returns and loneliness weighs so heavy Jaskier curls in on himself in want of companionship (it’s never just been about sex, not for him).

With Geralt, it’s the easiest thing in the world to lose himself in the comfort of touch. His eyes are closed, head tilted and resting in the crook of Jaskier’s cupped palm, and Jaskier feels something rekindle in his heart. It’s as foreign as it is welcome, as if bathwater had infiltrated his chest and made itself at home. Even now, waiting on his reply, Geralt exudes contentment.

He gets this feeling about people sometimes, that they have the potential to be important to him. That passing-by during the hubbub of daily life where he looks at someone and says “you and I, we could do great things together,” or—if he takes off the shiny, bardic polish—it’s less about the greatness and more about the fun, the inherent pleasure of mutually desired companionship. Shared looks, drinks, and memories. Mostly it’s a fleeting thing, the time spent with these people. But for the ones he sticks around long enough for, well. He’s only been wrong once (and Valdo Marx will always be a sore spot), while Geralt has yet to turn crueler word to him than blunt truths. This not-quite-man that wrestled a bear to save a stranger’s life, now drinking in Jaskier’s touch as greedily as Jaskier has his.

“Alright,” Jaskier says. Geralt opens his eyes. Not surprised, but hovering somewhere between confusion and pleasure, a hint of furrow in his brow and even smaller smile.

Jaskier pushes off the lip of the tub. A hot bath would be amazing, now that he’s letting himself think of it just in context of the bath itself. His legs ache fiercely and the dried sweat does him no favors. He sheds his clothes, folding each layer as he goes and placing them on the dresser by his lute.

He approaches the tub with minimal hesitance, but it’s still a comfort to see Geralt keeping his eyes shut. They’re brushing against a different type of intimacy here, one where (visible) nudity may well skew it in the other direction.

First a toe goes in, then as deep as his ankle. The water is so hot, a hair’s breadth shy of discomfort, that he wonders how Geralt put up with it upon its second feeding of flame but says nothing. He’ll appreciate the soak on sore muscles once he adjusts, and the silence between them loud enough to dam his curiosity and quiet wayward thoughts.

He eases into the tub, and the water pulls an involuntary moan from him. Like an oceanic tide, gradual and inevitable, the heat washes into his aching body. He sinks lower; the water sloshes higher. A moment too soon, his eyes droop shut entirely.

They fly wide open when a hand grasps his ankle, straightens the limb out and presses it against a soft, furred thigh. Geralt keeps his eyes steady on him while strong fingers circle and dig into his calf in slow, tandem strokes. What a rich reward for his earlier attentions!

“You’re too kind to this humble bard,” he says, but the words come out weaker than intended. It’s all he can do to keep himself from unfurling more noises of pleasure as deep strokes unwind and uncoil every drop of tension in his body. Something in his chest similarly unclenches, intangible but heavy for all it feels Geralt is reaching inside of him and scooping every worry out. An unstrung bow, finally given the space to recover from the strain.

He know he gives too much of himself too quickly, always has. It’s a nice change of pace—viscerally soothing, even—to have his efforts and affections reciprocated, to be offered touch instead of having to chase it all down himself like the cat after the mouse, or, no, a rodent after cheese, always daring risk the snap of the trap for the touch of another. (Valdo Marx, he grumbles in the back of his mind, but no—he has something, someone so much better in front of him; he won’t let that bastard take this from him too.)

As ardent and considerate as it is of Geralt to be doing this, Jaskier can’t help but notice he’s struggling not to to so much as tap Jaskier with his claws. Dually, washing out fur is more the two-person job than his own skin. He can indulge later; right now it should be Geralt’s turn. He lets Geralt work over his other calf all the same, decomposing into a heap of boneless delight under his ministrations. Wetness gathers at the back of his neck, condensation and sweat both from the all-encompassing heat. Geralt notices his fidgeting and alas, as all good things must come to an end, he relinquishes Jaskier’s leg. He reluctantly capitalizes on the opportunity, leaning back to dunk underwater and give his hair a quick scrub.

Jaskier pulls himself back up to full height, wrings water from his fringe, and scoots towards Geralt, who’s looking at him with an indecipherable expression. His ears flick back and stay there, pressed against his skull.

“I don’t need your help,” he says. His voice is more defensive than his body language, eyes unable to meet his for more than a moment. Shy? Is Jaskier overstaying his welcome? Or is this something else entirely?

“I want to,” Jaskier promises. He does, he really does. Maybe he’s taking advantage, but something about the vulnerability of this man, the trust he’s giving him—it makes it easier to share and indulge in his own needs. Touch for the sake of touch, always seeking more than the world seemed willing to offer. Geralt has yet to turn him away.

Geralt grunts. Gold eyes bore into him. It should feel like scrutiny, but instead Jaskier feels seen, perhaps for the first time since receiving genuine praise from Oxenfurt professors. Geralt listens to what he says, to exactly what Jaskier is showing him, and instead of judging for the exposed sliver of his soul, he must see something he likes.

Must, because Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand between his own two, claws resting against the base of his palm and the pads of his thumb knead tiny circles into soft flesh. The strict control over his expression has fallen away again, this time in favor of what Jaskier might be bold enough to call playful. Jaskier smiles, and, to his surprise, receives a wide, toothy grin in turn. A brilliant flash, like sunlight dancing through thick cloud cover. One blink and it’s gone, but the silent amusement strikes Jaskier himself as funny, prompting a chuckle.

“You’re brave. I’ll give you that, bard.”

“And you may be the oddest duck I’ve met this year. And it’s Jaskier, please.”

“Jaskier, then. Only this year?”

Jaskier grins, a sly thing full of promise. “Oh, most certainly. You haven’t tried juggling raw eggs in bed to impress a bedfellow, have you? And perhaps incidentally cracked said egg on said bedfellow? Some people have the most excellent skill in killing the mood. And that was only last winter; you’ll need to step up your game, I’m afraid.”

Geralt snorts with a twist into his shoulder, an ineffectual muffle to his mirth. “Can’t bring myself to hope to beat that mark.”

“We’ll see about that. Might I have my hand back?”

Geralt drops it, too expedient and abrupt for his tastes.

“Not, mind, that I was displeased with that arrangement, but I should think we ought to finish bathing before the water loses its heat again.” He waves a placating hand through the air, droplets scattering. “And I’ll prune if I stay in much longer.”

An opened mouth, unspoken ah of understanding. Geralt turns, exposing his back to Jaskier in a stilted, crab-like shuffle. He pulls his legs up as if determined to cram himself into the barest third of the tub.

“Now, now,” he says with tap to his scapula. “Loosen up for me?” A tug to his bicep this time, trying to unfold Geralt by his own hand. “There’s plenty of room.”

Geralt allows himself to be manipulated into the center of the tub, but it’s of his own accord he leans backwards, his back to Jaskier’s chest. His breath catches, arms automatically encircling Geralt in a warm embrace. A hint too warm maybe, bodies pressed close and water kissing their skin. Jaskier noses into the crease between neck and shoulder, eyes shut and drinking in their closeness with reverence. Maybe he should move, should give him some space—but Geralt slings an arm over his own and wraps a hand around his wrist in a loose clasp, effectively pinning him in place, and oh, he isn’t moving for the world.

They rest like that, intertwined and languid, for minutes without even an impression of movement. Simple acceptance of the other, fulfillment of a long-aching need. Jaskier feels fragmented, every inch of himself thriving in the close contact, but his eyes and throat keep trying to tell him he needs the release of tears. He’d call it a dam breaking, but he’s falling apart at the barest pressure. What must Geralt think of him?

No, no he will not think like that. Besides, Geralt has said not a word, simply threading their fingers together. That—his gentle understanding in and of itself—provokes a hitch in his breath, the tears to fall. Jaskier swipes at the tears with one hand, sprinkling warm water across his cheeks that slide down like more tears. Dueling lines of wetness, one of salt and one of cleansing. Or, perhaps, one in the same. Tears cleansing the soul as bathwater does the body.

Geralt squeezes his hand, and it breaks and stabilizes him in equal measure. More tears, though he’s far from overwrought. No, he just finally has the space to let go. Comfortably settled, safe in every way. With nothing to prove and nobody here to judge, he doesn’t have to hold it together. Geralt has jagged edges of his own, but he nor Jaskier are letting their broken edges hurt each other.

A twitch of his head before he draws a hand up, scrapes away tears. Two, three, four deep breaths. He counts them, in and out, then Geralt rearranges his hand to rest across his belly, and now each slow inhale is known to Jaskier, their warm exhales mingling like intertwined ghosts.

Tears abate as breaths grow deeper, and Jaskier’s hand drifts back from belly to arm. It’s easy to fall, the fly circling honey, into cursory swipes across Geralt’s fur. Fingers circling his arm, smoothing down fur turns into a thumb digging into broad shoulders without so much as a by your leave. Geralt relaxes so instantly into each stroke that Jaskier takes the opportunity to slip into a full back massage, working into, under, and around thick fur in favor of placating taut muscles. Geralt hums a pleased note now and again as Jaskier sweeps across the expanse of his back with generous touches.

Then, something brushes his leg underwater. If confronted, Jaskier may try to deny the yelp of surprise, but a yelp it is indeed. Geralt shoves himself forward so fast he may as well been burned. It doesn’t take but a second to put two and two together, but by then Geralt already has himself twisted around shoved into the rim of the tub with as much space between them as physically possible without him standing up and walking out.

“Geralt—” he tries, reaching a hand out, wags his fingers. His next bid smooths over the worry in his tone. If he doesn’t make a big deal of it, perhaps his companion will follow suit. “Geralt! Was your tail wagging? Nothing to be ashamed about, dear, I am quite good with my hands. Come back to me?”

He stares, eyes narrow and as piercing gold as ever. Jaskier drops his hand. Gods, but he looks so haunted, uncertainty plaguing his brow and skittishness writ in every arch of his body—arms wrapped tight around each other, head bowed, hunched in on himself as if a man his size could ever come across small.

“No harm done, I promise,” he says, carefully holding his voice even. “May I touch you?” He gestures loosely at Geralt’s arm. He doesn’t want to start from ground zero, but easing back into things could help his frayed nerves.

“You’ve paid back your debt.” Geralt looks away, jaw clenched. “You needn’t bother.”

“Then let me rephrase: I would like to touch you again. Because I want to—not out of any sense of obligation. Indulge me?”

“You should leave, bard.” He angles himself away from Jaskier so precisely that he can hardly read his face, much less make eye contact. “Leave, and forget about me.”

“Never,” and the word slips out before he can think. “I’m not going to walk off and forget about you. Does anyone even know you’re here, Geralt?” His voice rises in volume, concern and passion contorting its earlier softness.

“You. The sorcerer who cursed me.”

A strangled sound wrenches its way from his chest. Nobody, nobody until him. Five months alone. “I believe I will bother, thank you very much. Whatever you look like now, there is a man under there who—”

“No.”

“No? Geralt.” No reaction. “Please look at me?”

It must be the wrong thing to say, because Geralt doesn’t look at him, instead moves to shove a hand in his hair, accidentally knocks against a horn. Then, the words come tumbling out like a stone kicked down a mountain, sharp and halting. “I’m a witcher, Jaskier.” His occupation is spit out with virulence and vitriol. “I don’t have a place in your world of—of kindness.”

Oh, and doesn’t that explain his knowledge, how easily he killed and identified the werebear. And, come to think of it, the golden eyes must be his as well, not the work of a curse. A witcher. Not a man, not per say.

Jaskier backtracks to his own side of the tub, giving Geralt as much room as he can to either relax or put space between them as he pleases. Probably the latter, especially considering his next question. “Why were you cursed?”

Geralt grunts, intentionally grabs at his horns and tugs down sharply. Jaskier can’t tell how tight his grip is, but he wants to coax him away, to gentler things. “I. There was a girl. Born under a solar eclipse. Sorcerer wanted me to kill her.”

“You said no.”

A strangled huff of breath, but Jaskier doesn’t need him to confirm it. He’s been giving off vibes of heroics and heartbreak since the moment Jaskier fell through the door.

“You’re a good person, Geralt. Man or witcher aside, nothing can change that fact.” He knows as true as steel Geralt doesn’t believe him. The disgust he spoke with, it runs too deep—he should know. But he can try to shine light, a faint waft of moonlight through a window, a single pinprick in favor of something else. He can’t fix everything—gods, would probably struggle to fix any one thing—but he can offer a spark, one voice different from the masses.

“Can’t know that. Don’t know me.” His words come out a mite less clipped than before, but he doesn’t look up either. Jaskier has no intentions of pushing the matter; he seems more comfortable, talking like this.

“But I do! You’ve shown me, dear. And think what you will of me, but I have faith you’ll continue to do so.” Maybe Geralt would prove him wrong, maybe it would be him facing heartbreak when this was said and done. The crux of the matter is Geralt feels something like a kindred spirit. Jaskier wanders too far and Geralt not at all, but both of them are adrift and alone.

He can strew about flowery words until he’s blue in the face, but that has never stopped the string of of stinging rejection and staunch refusals—quite the opposite really. His song and fanfare comprises half of what gets him tossed out of towns. Spoken words and wooing, women and wine are, of course, the other half. For someone attempting a living off words, what they amount to in practice feels like a slap in the face from the universe. He persists for the love of the craft, but for all his years on the road, it’s a disheartening song and dance to face at every turn.

There is a vast silence between them Geralt seems disinclined to break, head bowed and hand worrying at the tip of a horn. The water is going tepid. Jaskier stands, sloughing water droplets in the direction of the tub as he departs.

He offers Geralt a hand. “Come on, now.” He keeps his voice as soft as it was at the start, and as fond as he is growing to be. “I do believe it’s time I partake in a meal at any rate, what with the berserker divesting me of my intended breakfast. Do dried figs interest you? I may have overindulged at my last town.” Well, plucked a few delicacies more than he could eat at the time and slipped them in his pouch, but he didn’t need to explain how his food came from trysts and not his non-existent wealth.

Geralt glances up at the mention of the figs, so Jaskier assumes he’s onto something here. He wriggles his fingers, and Geralt takes his hand—though not to pull himself up. He brushes a thumb over lute-calloused digits. The difference between the milk-white fur and his own skin is striking. Jaskier curls his fingers over Geralt’s thumb, who keeps his gaze on their hands intertwined. Jaskier watches his face, but the expression is inscrutable.

Finally, Geralt stands. “Get back,” he warns and steps out of the tub.

Jaskier obeys, or at least thinks he does with only one minor detour for a bath towel (or, no, repurposed bed sheet) dangling off a heat-fractured table. Geralt motions him back farther, and Jaskier retreats as far as the room’s entrance, which earns him an appraising nod.

Then, Geralt tenses. His arms cross, and he huddles in on himself. Truly, Jaskier should have seen it coming, but the laugh floats through parted lips unbidden when Geralt shakes and sends water soaring across the room. The big bad witcher-wolf, shaking himself dry like a dog! Even at this distance, a smattering of droplets find their way to his cheek. He tugs the makeshift towel up in an idle motion, but doesn’t pay it enough mind to further displace himself, too busy playing onlooker to the way Geralt’s hair whips around and fur juts out like any dog freshly bathed.

The full-body roil ends as quick as it came on and he then grabs another bedsheet to rub dry with, but Geralt is much worse off for it. Oh, his poor hair! The fur he worked so hard to detangle looks like it’s one twist away from matting. What’s atop his head, at least, Geralt gives a cursory pat-down, but the fur is more unruly (if with a glossier luster) than when they started.

Jaskier tsks and shoves clothes on, sheet half draped across his back in some semblance of modesty as he leans down. As thin as the bedsheet is, and as poor of a job he did drying himself, the pants cling unpleasantly. It occurs to him Geralt likely faces the same on a scale much worse than his own, and the pile of bedsheets on the fractured table may be for greater cause than infrequent loads of laundry.

Sure enough, he turns to see no less than three sheets scrunched around Geralt’s body, and one twisted atop his head, tying off hair and horns.

Quite the job for one. He prods his sheet curiously, and the center is soaked through, but the edges he could perhaps get away with offering as aid.

He approaches, sheet-clad hands raised. “Is this a case of ‘I scratch your back, you scratch mine’? Would you like some help?”

Geralt’s ear twitches. It’s a cute tick, if he’s being honest, and considering Geralt gives no other indication of having heard him, he appreciates what proffered body language he can get, be it intentional or unintentional tells.

No response forthcoming, Jaskier edges further into view. “May I touch you?”

Gold eyes fixate on him, so molten he could have a dozen odes prepared before he reaches the next tavern. He’s peering at Jaskier if he’s a mystery to be unraveled, if he were some mythical, supernaturally-inclined being rather than human. But he is (well, mostly—three quarters if you want to be pedantic about the whole thing), and he endeavors not to deal in riddles. His job, after all, is to rise to every occasion with as much clarity as he wills, to paint pictures in the mind’s eye and leave even the most unimaginative soul with a inspired light to carry away.

And so, he enlightens. “Your fur is a mess, Geralt. Stay still but a moment, and I’ll see how much I can put to rights. Dry it too, if such a thing is possible without leaving you matted. I’d rather not be the cause of such untamable clumps that you’d need a knife to fix it, but better me than you. Especially if you keep scrubbing at your back with such fervor.”

“Already cut some of it off. Grows back overnight.”

Well. He has little to say to that. A stroke of fortune for his decorum, Geralt gives up rubbing his back dry and tosses the sheet his way. Though his words conveyed nothing less than indifference, Jaskier is heartened by the gesture, even as Geralt’s tail hangs stiff. He eyes the appendage speculatively as it drips on his shoes (still bloodied, oh dear). He’d like to start there, but he’s already seen how Geralt treats his inhumanity, and after the bath…

Top down would suit them both just fine, even if his shoes do end up soaked through. Patch by patch, Jaskier gathers up fur and squeezes the moisture from it. As he trailblazes across his back and shoulders, he exchanges one sheet for the next, and finally the third sheet (the fourth wraps securely around Geralt’s waist, tucked just below the tail, and Jaskier doesn’t fancy divesting that of him here and now) when all that’s left of his significantly less damp backside is the tail.

With intentionally loud, shuffling steps, he folds himself genuflect behind Geralt with a hand a hair’s breath from the base of his tapered spine. “Ready?”

A wet tail smacks him in the cheek.

If it weren’t for its newfound proximity to fur and water, Jaskier’s jaw would drop. As it stands, he gives a muffled huff of surprise and wicks the debris off with mischievous glee blooming. A glance up reveals nothing at all, Geralt as ramrod straight as he’s been since the start.

A glance down. The tail rests, plopped on his shoulder without further ado and gusto.

It seems Geralt is hiding a delightfully wicked sense of humor under his marked stoicism and shyer tendencies. With a lingering grin, Jaskier wraps swaths of fur and pats it dry, proceeding down his tail methodologically. Once divested of the worst of the water logging, the tail gives two swings, swatting him in the cheek once again. He can’t say if it’s intentional or not, but Jaskier decides to take it as playful show of gratitude.

He’s not wrong—Geralt turns as Jaskier stands, and greets him with a tentative clap on the shoulder and nod, wearing the closet thing to a smile he’s seen since their earlier tail-related mishap. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but his ear twitches and head drops rather than vocalize whatever train of thought there may have been.

“I’ll leave you to the rest of it, shall I?” The towel he passes to Geralt is damp, but not salvageable. The one pulled off his head nearly qualified as such, soaked through between long locks of hair and thick clumps of fur tangled together in damp matrimony.

Jaskier passes one last smile to Geralt, who’s back to a quizzical squint, head lilting to the side but a fraction, and staring at Jaskier if he’s but one of the many unsolvable mysteries of the universe. Gently, Jaskier reaches forth and pries his fingers back, about to tear a gash in his relinquished towel. Geralt looks down with no small dose of surprise, eyes wide and mouth pressed thin as if his idle scraping against the cloth had been beyond notice, and had caused sudden offense by betraying his far-away thoughts.

What about him could beget such concentration? Dare he say he is not the most straightforward creature to walk the earth, but what could a witcher ponder of a wandering bard? He pats his hand and draws back. “Right. I did promise you figs earlier, did I not? Let it not be said I go back on my word,” which is not a statement he anticipates protest from, but here we are—

“You can go. Leave this place. Might be safer that way. Wouldn’t blame you.”

Jaskier pauses mid-step. Deliberately continues to his lute case, back turned toward Geralt. If he’s more comfortable this way, not being looked at, who is he to deny?

“I promised figs, and figs there will be,” he says, fishing the wrapped fruits out of an outer pocket. “You’ve given me no reason to doubt your mastery of body and mind, even as put upon by this curse as you may be. I understand what you are saying, Geralt, but it seems I am safer within these four walls than outside them, does it not? More comfortable even, as there has been quite the fall chill in the air these passing weeks, and I may have overestimated both the weather’s incentive to linger and my own walking pace.” He’s perched languidly, back against the wall and gesticulating at the opposite wall with Geralt to his right, just out of sight if he stares straight ahead.

“So you see, I find myself with little in favor of departure—I wait out the chill, benefit from four walls and hot baths, and, most significant to my socially-disposed nature, good company. If you wish to be rid of me, I’m afraid you may have to crack a raw egg over me. Or, no, preferably with due consideration to my long-suffering clothes, use stronger words and I shall eject myself as you please.”

Geralt shuffles within line of sight, fully clothed and only leaving minute patches of wetness where his feet depart stone. The infinite water bowl is tucked in the crook of his elbow.

With his willing arrival into his line of sight, Jaskier angles himself appropriately, gesturing with one hand full of fig-filled cloth. “So, do we find ourselves in agreement? Are your protests token or with substance?”

Geralt looks away from him, ear flicking back and forth several times over before responding. “I can’t guarantee your safety. There are no mental effects that I know of, but the curse may progress.”

“You’ve been here five months already to no ill effect? I can’t imagine lady luck is so displeased with me for that to change within the fortnight.”

“It might.” At this, Geralt meets his gaze.

“And yet, you have not ordered me away from here. Will you?” Jaskier takes a cautionary step forward. An ear twitch, but no retreat. He closes the gap and slips a hand under Geralt’s own.

His eyes finally return to tracing the stone floor. “No. You… I find myself with better company than I could have hoped.”

Jaskier can’t help but tease, a smile resting upon his lips and threading his voice, “Did you hope for any company at all?”

A fraction of a laugh escapes Geralt, “Leave me some of my secrets, now.”

“Ah,” he says with a light flick to Geralt’s arm, “I see how it is. I am only better to no company at all! You wound me.”

Golden eyes and a full smile this time. “No. You’re much better company than many of the world. Mind, my final opinion might change depending on the songs you bring to the table.”

“Ha! Have no doubt, I will find what music suits your disposition and play your heart’s fill of it. Not the Fishmonger’s Daughter type are you, I take it?”

“Now that would be telling.”

“As mysterious as he is noble! Perhaps you could take center stage next? I’m sure your deeds could sate many a tavern’s thirst for heroics.” And speaking of thirst, Jaskier’s belly has alerted him to his growing needs, and these figs won’t eat themselves. He pushes the cheesecloth into a clawed hand, plucks his lute case from the ground. Only upon opening the door does notice Geralt has gone quiet again, hand drawn up behind a flattened ear and worrying a horn. Another faux pas? “Not until next spring, certainly. I would need at least a season to compose a song cycle worthy of your witchering.”

An ear flicks up as he follows Jaskier out of the room, swiveled forward and standing straighter than he’s seen the appendage poised yet. “That—that isn’t even a word.”

“I could make it one.” They fall into step beside one another. Presumably toward the dining hall, though Jaskier will let him take point.

“Besides,” he says with a head shake, as if the very thought of “witchering” had him sidetracked, “people don’t want to hear about my kind. Trust me, nothing I could share would make for palatable song material in their eyes, no matter how you disguise it.

“Ye of little faith! Will you not at least grace my verse with a moment’s attention before passing such strong judgment of my skill?” Given the public’s reception of his homebrew verses (and even some otherwise), he is more than aware this overstates his abilities by a wide margin, but when had modesty ever advanced a cause? Plus, he is certain Geralt will judge its merits or detriments by his own ear, and no spoken word he says otherwise will change that.

“Not your skill I doubt. I’ve dealt with these people longer than your life spans, and their distaste toward witches festers longer yet.”

Their path has led them, as suspected, back to the dining hall. Geralt sets the cloth-wrapped figs and water bowl at the far end of the table.

As they sit down, a nearby basket catches his eye. “Isn’t that unsanitary?” The meat sits raw and uncovered in an unrefined heap, though it looks fresh enough and its faint aroma is pleasant with not a touch of rancidity. Not yet, at least.

Geralt grunts. “Sorcerer’s work. Replenishes itself every night, similar to the water bowl. Don’t think too hard about it.”

Jaskier gives another appraising sniff, leaning conspicuously over Geralt.

“Venison. I think.”

“Hmm. I do suppose that makes me feel better. Don’t suppose there’s such a thing as magical meat going bad, is there?”

“There is.”

He blinks owlishly at Geralt, but even with an “and then what happened?” flourish, Geralt offers no more follow up than a grimace and minute head-shake. Good old food poisoning perhaps? Later, perhaps when not over a meal. And speaking of…

The dried figs are unwrapped without further ceremony, and Jaskier plucks from his generous pile of semi-pilfered produce. Geralt is hesitant, but he nudges a slice closer, twice over until his acquiescence.

Geralt still takes his time, staring at the fruit in hand with something akin to disbelief.

“You said you can’t leave this place?” Jaskier is halfway through his own slice and slows down his chewing as it dawns on him.

A nod, though Geralt doesn’t spare him a glance. Instead he takes a tentative bite, lips closing around the bitten-off piece, lagging a half-second after his teeth clamped around. The fur probably gets in his way, as thickly as it frames his face. His eyes flutter shut, and it seems he’s determined to savor every bite to its full extent.

Suddenly, the figs don’t seem quite so appealing for his own pallet and his heart aches once again for this witcher with his curse as multi-fold as it is ruthless. “The meat—is that all the food you’ve had since arriving?”

Geralt swallows, somehow even managing to slow that act down to its most drawn-out state. “Yes.” He still doesn’t look at him, though this time the fig seems like an excuse rather than his occupation.

Nearly half a year on venison alone. Nothing and nobody. Jaskier can scarcely wrap his mind around the notion. More over, he doesn’t _want_ to. But Geralt had to live such a reality, and now Jaskier can help break the monotony.

He swallows hard and takes only the barest sliver out of his fig slice. Fortunate, then, that he had stashed so many away. Ordinarily, he would call this three or more servings of fruit in front of them, though Geralt can make it last as long or as short as he cares to. He could hardly begrudge him such a simple pleasure of life.

Jaskier eats the rest of his fig slice with great dawdling, and Geralt two more slices with appreciative silence. Geralt doesn’t look his way; Jaskier can hardly take his eyes off him, even as courtesy demands. Through their luncheon, his heart twists, a writhing serpent in his chest knotting itself in concern and pain on behalf of his witcher.


	3. I’m the paper cut that kills you

The rest of their afternoon goes as such: Geralt releases him to search the rest of the castle and select a room of his choice. In the short time that takes (the one with the biggest desk, obviously, though its large bed is also a boon), Geralt manages to usher the bear carcass marginally outside the castle doors—aard, he calls the magic—though he suggests they refrain from going near it in the coming weeks. Despite the promised smell, it’s the best solution either of them can come up with unless Jaskier suddenly finds himself capable of lifting several hundred pounds of werebear. Let the birds have their fill, stay out of the western half of the courtyard, and hope the wind favors them.

With his room selected and Geralt returned to him, they spend nearly four hours clearing the soot and dust from its every crevice. There’s the most wonderful view of distant snow-dusted mountains, and the northern face means neither morning nor evening sun should be a particular disruption. As additional happenstance (as Jaskier failed to notice when making his selection), it only stands with one room between it and Geralt’s own. The mattress is no less unscathed as any other in the castle, which is to say saggy and ridden with as many holes as swiss cheese, but Jaskier appreciates Geralt’s dedication to finding a clean bed sheet to lay over it.

That’s his accommodations settled.

Then, dinner. Though they called their feast of figs a meal, in truth it scarcely constituted a snack with how loathe they were to deplete the pile. So Jaskier settles in as Geralt cooks a helping of venison, and no more do they see of each other until his lute is polished and he returns to the dining hall, instrument in hand.

It smells of burnt meat.

Geralt hunches over a brazier, though the coals in it are ashy and crumbled, closer to dust than cooking-worthy. The pot sits directly on top of the simmering coals, only alight, he suspects, due to Geralt’s continuous low gout of applied flame.

“Er, is everything okay in here?” Jaskier can’t see inside the pot, even shifting to his toes. Though some of their height difference is in the horns, Geralt stands a good deal taller than himself. Hopefully he can see what he’s doing…

“Fine.”

“Fine as in I should walk away and expect a delicious meal in short order? Or fine as in ‘nothing is presently on fire that shouldn’t be’?”

Geralt grunts, levels him a glare. “Fine.”

“Right then.”

Trusting his nose more than his newfound companion, Jaskier moves to pull a rickety chair, pushed against the back wall, toward the brazier, which promptly loses half of the decorative backing at the first tug. His momentary disbelief passes with the assessment that, even if Geralt has spent less than a year here, the castle’s destruction could be from long before—and who knew what rooms the fire hit the hardest.

Jaskier glances up, and Geralt promptly glances down, though not quick enough to hide the hint of a smile.

“Do I have to pull a chair up or would you kindly reassure me this lovely burning smell is a potpourri and not our dinner?”

“It’s not our dinner.”

“But not a potpourri either—” His rambling steps have brought the meat basket in sight. “Ah.” A hunk of charred meat, though “meat” is a bit generous for what it resembles at this stage, sits innocuously, wedged in the basket beside its fresher counterparts.

Behind him comes a great rattling. Jaskier jumps. He turns, and the pot totters a moment longer.

“Dinner. Not potpourri. Now eat up.”

The meat is greasy and gamey, but much more substantial than any of his fare on the road and decidedly not burnt. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Geralt glancing his way several times during the meal, though he makes no motion to dissuade him of the act. Tit for tat, perhaps.

As he eats near enough his fill, he comments, “My compliments to the chef.”

Geralt’s ears perk, and he doesn’t look at Jaskier again until they finish dining.

Jaskier twists around in his seat and lifts his lute from its case. Raising his head to appraise Geralt’s state, he finds a ready audience, already mirroring his stance and chair rearranged to face him better. It feels like a compliment considering how non-confrontational Geralt has endeavored to come off thus far, and how fixated he is now. The distance between them is thin—much less than what he would maintain except in the most crowded of venues.

Their knees almost touch, and he suspects the intimacy isn’t lost on either of them.

That night, Jaskier weaves words across ballads of heroics and knights, of love’s labors lost and won, and of wandering tales with no end nor beginning, simply a traversing of landscapes and hamlets intertwined like embroidered threads, bound together for some grander tapestry too large to grasp at through one story alone.

Though Geralt is not the perfect listener—he never claps along, even to the more popular tunes wherein his own voice is often lost amid the thundering of the crowd—he is an attentive one, eyes never wavering from his form (though often on the nimble pluck of lute strings rather than his face, even as he sings). His expression rises and falls with the crescendo and denouement of songs, even grows serene as the night goes on and Jaskier falls into wordless patterns, sets and songs he learned as practice in Oxenfurt rather than the crowd-pleasers he’s beholden to during tavern crawls.

Jaskier has never felt so appreciated in all his years and all the taverns across the continent.

When his fingers and both their eyes tire, with the sun long-since disappearing beyond the mountains and horizons once over, Jaskier relinquishes hold of his lute, though with great reluctance. It is—can he even say in the face of Geralt’s curse?—a magical evening, and though their knees never brush, the intimacy of a show for one condenses in his chest like a baby bird safe in its nest—a warm, protected thing, well-fed and tended.

Geralt meets his gaze head-on without hesitancy as he rises and offers a hand to Jaskier, and he thinks there’s fondness in the gaze, of softened eyes and mouth just so, speaking of a night well-spent, without concern or regret. Relaxation is a good look on him.

Jaskier packs his lute away as Geralt clears their plates and cutlery. They make the ascent to bedrooms in companionable silence. At the door, Geralt speaks. “It was nice. Your music.”

The words are so foreign in Geralt’s mouth and to Jaskier’s ears, words escape him for a breath. “So I am good company after all,” but the softness in his voice contort it from the quip it was earlier to something more visceral.

Still, Geralt nods as if his confirmation on the matter is expected, as if Jaskier’s neediness isn’t dangling on his sleeve.

Heart clenching hotly, his hand goes for the door handle, but Geralt catches him with one more question.

“You’ll still be here? In the morning.” One tooth pokes through, perhaps a mite sharper and larger than it should be, and digs into his lip. Any harder and it may cut through the skin.

He places a hand on Geralt’s arm. The fur tickles like feather down. “I’m not leaving you, Geralt. I enjoyed tonight greatly, and as long as you don’t see me overstaying my welcome, I would like to stay for some time more. I have yet to turn your deeds to song, after all, and I have faith where you lack it—the people will sing your praises. And as any master of the craft could tell you, these things take time. You’ll not be rid of me any sooner than the fortnight, and perhaps longer than that if you’ll suffer it. Nor,” he says with an affable pat, “would I depart without saying goodbye. So yes, Geralt, I will be here, and for many mornings to come.”

Geralt ducks his head as one would while blushing, though he can hardly conjure such an image of him, curse or not. “Goodnight, Jaskier.”

A smile blooms alongside their growing bonds of friendship. “Sweet dreams,” he wishes, and they both disappear behind closed doors in a castle no longer devoid of song and comradery.

\---

Geralt’s morning is as every before it, but unprecedented for all that he can still hear the heartbeat of the visiting bard as he passes his room in the hall. He wants to making little of it—he did promise, after all, and there was no trace of a lie to be scented or heard on him—but the novelty of it, of noise where there was once silence, of company where he once stood alone, is more than enough to give him pause. He stands, presses a hand to the doorway. His claws against the wood still pull his gaze as adamantly as the day they grew in, sandy brown and as deadly as any blade.

The curse isn’t progressing how he thought it would. It rattles him, how little he knows. His helplessness to combat it. But worse yet would be if his carelessness and poor assessment of the situation gets some hapless bard caught up in the crossfire. He flexes his claws, stretches the doggish webbing creeping between digits. The wood is sturdy enough to not scrape under the motion, but any more pressure than that…

Under the uncertainty, the fear that hounds his dreams like webbing clinging to ~~skin~~ fur, his mind is still his own. Until that changes, it doesn’t matter how his body reshapes itself. He knows the wary, weary steps of caution, of being in a body so finely tuned to kill. Jaskier will come to no harm at his hand, not yet. The moment that changes, he has the upmost tower set up. A barricade at the ready. Time enough for someone to escape the castle unscathed, should the curse overtake him.

Jaskier shifts in his sleep, skin against cloth. Geralt turns tail, and prays he isn’t wrong.

The next hour, Geralt exhausts himself experimenting with igni and meat. Never before has he needed to provide for more than a witcher’s hearty metabolism in the stubborn absence of cooking stoves and fires—or wood and fresh coals, as it stands. Raw meat isn’t his first choice, but nor is it his last.

This isn’t the first time he’s found himself asking what Vesemir would do. The first not directly about monsters, maybe.

A new discovery about the basket: it refills itself once empty.

Three more cuts of meat. Vesemir and Eskel would find a way to do it better, he knows. He’s tired from the constant stream of igni, a different type of focus than battle. Not too hot, never too concentrated. The strain of it leaves an unusual pain behind, his face aching as if a strange pressure headache.

Then, it strikes, not a headache at all. Blood, a familiar tang in his mouth. The ache shoots through his cheekbones, dull and ringing as if being tossed about by a forktail, then turns sharp, sour, and fingers fly to his teeth.

The canines are enlarging, and his mouth shifting to accommodate.

“Fuck,” he tries to say, but instead the _f_ grazes his lip and pierces. Larger and larger yet. First he puts pressure at his gums, then lifts his upper lip out of the way, the pink, bloodied flesh tender to the touch. He forces his breath slow and deep, but this is not a pain that’s prepared for or ignored. Muscle changing too fast, the roots of the teeth elongating to match its downward stroke. His nerves are frayed, but wincing in pain only aggravates the condition.

Still, still, he imposes himself a statue. Ten minutes he stands—back to cooling stone, metal, and partially cooked meat—bracing against the change. It comes from within. There’s nothing to fight.

He hates every second.

Finally, his posture droops to a slump against the oven, and he dares massage at swollen gums. Painful, but no longer such curdling pressure. He closes his eyes, allows himself a minute of reprieve.

The kitchen door swings open with a strident creak. “Ah, there you are!”

Thirty seconds of reprieve, more like.

“I hope you don’t mind—oh dear! Whatever happened to you? There’s blood everywhere!”

Geralt cracks open an eye, and Jaskier—Jaskier has a cracked wooden pail of flowers in hand.

It’s only the freshly sliced lip that holds his tongue. He turns with deliberate slowness, and knows exactly when Jaskier spots the new addition.

“Gods! Geralt?” His heartbeat accelerates, and tone tentative. “Are you hurt?”

He opens his mouth just a crack. The blood-coated teeth slide unpleasantly against his lip.

“Oh dear.” Despite the macabre scene he must make, Jaskier smells of worry, not fright. He’s searching the room, for what he cannot guess. The flower pail is left to the countertop, an innocuous-looking array of fragrant weeds. Jaskier raises a placating hand. “You stay here, I’ll be right back.”

Where would he go?

Just to be defiant, Geralt leaves the room, sparing one baleful glare at the flower pail. He’s not sure what he’s tempted to do, but he forces it to take the brunt of his spite. Forgetting himself again, again, he bares his teeth. A mistake, and it tugs at tenderized muscles.

Damn it all.

He finds himself sitting at the dining table, unwilling to wander far even with his momentary antagonism toward Jaskier.

“Where’s that bowl again?”

Geralt lifts his head.

Jaskier has a bedsheet in hand, and is making a beeline for the water bowl at his end of the dining table. The sheet is curled around his hand, the outline of his palm faint in the bunched material. He dabs at the water, and scoots the bowl closer to Geralt as he walks. “There we go,” he murmurs.

Geralt obliges as Jaskier tilts his chin up. Though he had ignored the sluggish bleed before, the steady flow from agitated gums had indeed made a mess of things, his chin and ruff worst of all. But of course, Jaskier doesn’t start there.

Ragged cloth-covered flesh traces clean lines around his mouth, then the two protruding fangs themselves. No hesitation, but nothing less than gentle.

Jaskier dabs, wipes, rinses and repeats. He doesn’t ask any more questions, his only focus on removing stains from fur and cloth.

It takes longer than he finds reasonable to reach an acceptable level of cleanliness in Jaskier’s eyes. Yet, for all he scrapes at his bloodied and sore mouth, not once has he applied enough pressure to cause harm. An unusual warmth blooms in his chest at the notion, as Jaskier stands back and nods at his handiwork

Jaskier picks up the bowl and unravels the corner of bedsheet serving as a washrag once again. He steps delicately towards the broken window, glass shards contained but not disposed of, the need for weapons and tools too strong to rid himself of even the scraps. Without his gaze, Geralt observes freely as he dumps the blood-muddied water, rinses the sheet out.

Song and soft touches. Geralt never would call himself one to need such things, but here, here bereft of any company for months without end, his needs have changed. He has no need of his weapons in this prison, though he misses Roach with a keening desperation. His medallion would be of no use with his very body exuding magic in shattering waves. But the touch of another…

The rough tussle between the wolves of Kaer Morhen, the hand on his shoulder as Vesemir greets him after seasons away with a father’s affection. Even amid the year, brothel visits and the stray curious stranger brought their own brand of touch. Jaskier is different than all of them. He gives touch like a waterfall gives wetness, a never-ending spray, indiscriminate to the hand reaching out.

It’s dangerous for both of them.

There’s no place in his life beyond these four walls for someone of such vitality and kindness, and less of a place within them. His music—crass when parroting others, odd as dog up a tree when his own verse—belongs somewhere warmer than Narok. Somewhere drink flows freely, and his song might be heard by a more illumined audience.

Geralt thinks his words precious, but as a blacksmith might find a flower—a distant beauty, but one dampened by drawing it in too close. A scorched flower, a fearful singer—that is the end in sight. Jaskier either leaves and finds help for Geralt, or stays until he transforms so distally to be unrecognizable in body and mind that the same fate is met: the bard gone from these halls.

Jaskier is a lifeline to his body if he leaves, and mind if he stays. Geralt knows what he needs, but wants so deeply he can hardly contend. How can he? The last he knew loneliness like this, it was with another type of transformation running through his veins and his brothers dying around him.

These halls reek of a different death, and the only screams are of distant beasts traversing the range. Still, as alone and helpless now as then, too, if not more for his inability to fight toward any greater outcome than impotence. During the Trials, he could at least grasp at life.

He glances up to accidentally graze Jaskier’s gaze as he returns, clean cloth and basin of water in hand. The intimacy of it settles uncomfortable in his gut, and he turns to trace patterns in the grain of the wooden table.

“You gave me quite the fright, you know. Is this curse of yours always so drastic? Did you grow the horns in overnight as well?”

Twin hands at his throat. Had it not been for yesterday, Geralt wouldn’t dream of allowing the act. In the wake of it, it feels a lesser concession. Still, he waits for the hands to recede before he braves commentary.

“Not overnight,” he answers with caution. He needs to tell him about the flowers. The words are stuck in his throat, and not just because he can hear the way his words slur around the newfangled addition to his mouth.

“Oh? Are fangs of a different sort then? Do some bits grow in faster than others? That must have itched terribly. The fur, I mean.”

It did, and still does under the too-tight clothes. He’s still learning to ignore it. Removing them entirely would be too much like surrendering to the curse’s vice. “Depends,” he says as an afterthought. (He refuses to pay heed to the lisp taunting his ears.) Jaskier has so many words, and they roll around in his head like a rainstorm’s first drops of water in a palm, taking time to bead and pool together. Time before Geralt can put all the words together and make sense of them. Being asked a question that he’s expected to answer. Words that exist outside his own head that he did not put there. It still feels this bard should be nothing more than a dream, but Geralt would never dream of someone so like the sun.

“Depends? On what? I should quite like to know, if that’s alright by you. I would rather like to be prepared for the next occasion. Perhaps a towel at the ready? The bathroom rather than the kitchen? Please don’t tell me you’re as in the dark as I; this curse upon you seems dreadful enough without being more unpredictable than the weather above.”

Geralt is silent. He doesn’t know why, not when he knows the words must be said. Jaskier… He shouldn’t have to know he did this to Geralt. He knows maliciousness, and this is not it. Worry is acerbic on his tongue, like biting into a lemon. Despite the probing questions, Jaskier threads through fur as gentle as a spring breeze.

“I hope you’re not in too much pain, Geralt. You’re quiet this morning. Understandably so! But if there are by any means ways in which I can assist you, you need but say the word—just one.”

“Don’t pick the flowers.”

“Don’t—flowers? Well, I did say one word. I’ll take four. But—” Jaskier freezes, and the horror is rotten fruit under his nose. “Geralt, I—”

“Didn’t know,” he interrupts.

“But I did this to you?”

The bedsheet rests damp, unused on the wood. It fills his field of view, breaking off his outlining of wood grains in their uniform sameness. Two degrees of pattern-breaking, the cloth atop the wood and bloody red staining off-white fabric. “It’s tied to the flowers. Plants. They die, I change.”

“Gods… I—”

“You didn’t know.” There’s more bite to his words than he means. Or maybe he does, but it’s not Jaskier he’s biting. Nipping the blame in the bud. Ignorance and misinformation has given him as many scars as his own hand faltering. This won’t even scar; just one step sooner than the rest. Everything goes at first frost, no matter how fast or slow the rest is.

“Still, I feel an apology is owed.” Jaskier sits beside him.

Geralt pushes the abandoned sheet out of the way. One claw darts out to tap against a knot in the wood, but he retracts it before he can continue following the path of parallels and whorls.

“Geralt, I am incredibly sorry I have caused you such pain. I’ll not pick another flower, you have my word. Would it help if I replanted them? If they take root, would that help… anything?”

He looks up, gold on blue. His surprise must be plainly writ, because Jaskier continues, “Well, no harm in trying, is there? I’ll be right off, find a nice cozy spot for them.”

They both know there is no reversal, only delaying the inevitable. But the sentiment is appreciated, and the gesture more than empty faith. If they do root, well. Maybe where he lost time today, he’ll gain time before another stage. He can only hope.

Jaskier leaves without further ado, pail of haphazardly plucked stems, leaves still hale and green and flowers happily unfurled. Maybe. Maybe they’ll take root.

Geralt stares at the discarded sheet. He grasps at the fur at his neck uselessly. There’s no seeing it—knowing if it rests fully clean or partially bloodied—not without a mirror. His stomach clenches, and it’s with that he resumes his original task in the kitchens.

The last cut of meat he was handling rests in the oven. The aroma is good enough to give him pause, and he lifts it off the metal tray beneath with more hope than he had of the previous attempts. The outside isn’t blackened, and if the insides are as cooked as they smell then he may have accomplished his goal altogether on accident, by proxy of nothing more than curse interruptions. Too hungry to be fussed with cutlery (or so he tells himself; it’s only around very select company he would bother with any finesse, much less proper utensils), he tears the meat in two with poised claws.

One, two, three—sight, smell, taste. It all checks out, and Geralt huffs, ambivalent at the turn of events. At least he can offer Jaskier food neither under nor overcooked to the point of inedibility. One canine bites into his skin as he unconsciously moves to worry his lip with the tooth, reminding him of the ever-looming threat.

What would be next? How far would the curse carry him? Beast, hybrid, or humanoid, what was to be his fate? If the latter, he cannot envision many more changes, but frost is yet a month off. If the former…

It is the coward’s way out, but he relinquishes in the privacy of his own mind. He doesn’t want to think about his fate if he is to become a beast. Hunter to hunted.

He tears into his half of the meat. It’s better this way, cooked instead of raw. Maybe he could cook more on the road, leave some on a fire overnight. If. Only if…

In dislodging his thoughts, his horn connects with the wall, accompanied by a sharp clack and dull throb. He rummages lightly and reemerges with an earthenware plate, leaving the kitchen and shoving plate then meat onto the dining table. Massaging his scalp only helps so much.

For the first time since arrival, Geralt considers skipping morning training in favor of sleep. But this is bone-deep weariness as much as emotional exhaustion, something that will cling to him as pond scum in southern lakes until next spring’s turnover. Sleep is oblivion. Sleep is giving in.

Jaskier returns just as the meat grows cold, chilled in the wafts of autumn air darting in and out of the shattered window. Geralt, with enough care even Eskel would be impressed, casts a paper-thin igni over the cooled flesh. With one claw outstretched, he nudges his offering closer.

“You already ate, then?” The pail is absent. Jaskier fiddles with a sleeve of his jacket, rolls fingers across the back of his hand, then takes to twiddling his thumbs as he speaks. Geralt nods, and he continues, “Good, good. Your flowers are back in the ground. I had to pull a few of their lower leaves off as to not confuse them, inches underground, but I do think they are as secure as they shall find themselves, given the circumstances. I believe I’ll go out and water them in the morning, and perhaps a few of their neighbors.”

He hesitates, then sits on the same chair as their dinner previous but perched upon it as a flighty bird. “I am truly, terribly sorry for my misstep. I simply wanted to bring a bit of color and life to this place. Is there, perhaps, something else I could do, do you think? Would you be amendable to a light clean of the dining hall? Only as you sanction it, however—I have quite learned my lesson. Curses indeed!”

Geralt takes a claw to the meat once more, lifts it and lets it plop loudly onto the wood. It’ll go cold again otherwise, if Jaskier doesn’t eat now.

Jaskier doesn’t frown, but the knot between his brows implies one. Still, he takes his cut and Geralt feels better for it. Also for his own sake, it gives Geralt a moment to think over words—Jaskier’s explanations and plans and questions, and what his own response could be.

“Thank you for breakfast, by the way. Quite delicious.” Jaskier flashes an appreciative smile with grease at his chin, and Geralt’s gaze flees to the table’s grain.

What did it say, that he had never had a human so comfortable around him in a man’s skin? What did this bard see in him—or not see—that emboldened him so? He can only hope for his own sake (as he hopes the opposite for Jaskier’s) that he will choose to stay in Narok, at least a little while longer.

“Clean up the glass today?” Geralt offers at last. The distortion of the words eats at him, acid on armor.

Jaskier is musing the bedsheet, wiping grease off where there is no blood. “Yes! Yes, well, I couldn’t help but notice you lack footwear, and I myself have run these shoes a bit ragged, so I would generally prefer to be walking on a glass-free surface, is all. The chairs could be sorted through, and the table has seen better days. Do you think the ash will come off? It seems properly embedded. But I think with a little elbow grease, or, well, it is at least worth an attempt.” He says all this through a pleased grin, the smile infecting his words, and with a swish of his hand in the appropriate direction as the conversation flows.

Geralt nods, and that seems to be enough confirmation for Jaskier. His babbling brook of words, streaming from an unknown and unending source, carries them through the morning, and only when the afternoon light shines on a glass-free floor and table approaching brown instead of ashen gray does he realize he missed his morning training after all.


	4. You try so loud to love me / But I cannot seem to hear.

Jaskier is worn out, but in the way of a day’s work well-done. A light soreness to his muscles that pull a smile for the reminder of the progress made. It took some creativity and more reuse of the same bedsheet than he thought the patchy cloth could handle, but the dining hall stands if not clean, than at least a more welcoming sight than before. The open window letting birdsong and moth and rippling breeze through is growing on him, especially now that he might stand beside it and glimpse the outdoors without fearing a slice through stiff leather soles.

Their little successes have no bearing on the knot in his chest.

Geralt has been quiet all day, and each word is slurred by the thick fangs poking out of his mouth. He’s asked twice if they’re still causing him pain, but only received a blank look and shrug in response. Jaskier’s heard, as any traveler, how witchers are proclaimed to have no feelings at all. The interplay of emotion that interweaves Geralt’s body language and voice are undeniable, but every good rumor starts with a grain of truth. Not a lack of emotional feeling, but resilience to pain?

He might have asked, but he’s the reason Geralt may or may not be in pain at all. Every time he entertains the notion, he bites down the words and redirects his restless mind to something inconsequential, sharing stories as freely as that endless water bowl this castle boasts. Words upon words, talking around anything of consequence, and distracting even himself for minutes at a time.

Though, he admits, it is curious how many taverns he and Geralt have both visited, walking the same paths but during different seasons and breaking off for opposing causes. (He, to reach a city. Geralt, to avoid them.) Jaskier muses that they may have crossed paths more naturally had Geralt not been cooped up, or that they may find time to share a road once this matter is settled. When, not if, because while Geralt does not strike him as optimistic about his fate, Jaskier could not dream of giving up on him. This is a hero’s tale, he knows it. (Scribbled in the margins of his remaining journal—the one in his lute case mostly filled with songs ready for presentation—he has the beginnings of a song cycle.)

In the advent of their cleaning (mis)adventures (for the ash and dust was so thick as to warrant another bath post-haste, it is as much misadventure in need of individual cleaning up after as it is a monument to their cleaner residence), Jaskier sits in the late afternoon light and strums at his lute. While Geralt provides immensely pleasurable company, he is unused to someone so disinclined to taking initiative and voicing displeasures and cannot tell if his idle playing—full of missteps and repeating chords to test the mettle of his in-progress pieces—are a welcome accompaniment to his day.

Despite misgivings, Geralt does seek him out after the sun dwindles in the sky like a flicking candle behind the peaks and snow-ladened clouds of the ranges at their back. They’re in a drawing room, and Geralt sits without preamble, his back to Jaskier and front to the southern window.

Is _The Song of the White Wolf_ too on the nose?

Probably.

He keeps composing. Even if he discards the title and theme, the notes come together with no more resistance than upturning a fresh jar of honey, each chord following the next in its descent from concept to thought, from thought to string. It’s fumbling and shy until it isn’t, his muse a statuesque touchstone in the wake of it. With the sun’s recession, his fingers slow in acknowledgment of the growing nip in the air and hunger in his belly.

Geralt’s ears flick once, up-down, as Jaskier settles his lute in its case, but his companion is otherwise as unreactive as a painting, framed by the dusky hues of nightfall painting him in shadow even as he stands beside him, facing the darkened field of flora and the stretch of forest beyond the castle’s boundaries. The rise and fall of his chest is much slower than his own, and trying to match the pace in idle curiosity only results in a yawn. That, finally, pulls Geralt’s gaze.

“Dinner?” he offers. Figs seem like an appropriate treat after everything today. An apology meal from him, a celebratory “we cleaned another room” meal for both of them, though Jaskier wishes Geralt would eat the lion’s share for multiple reasons. If for none other than he cannot fathom living on naught but meat for even a month consecutive.

He places an encouraging hand on Geralt’s shoulder, who looks at him with soft openness. His pupils are dilated wider than he’s seen yet, and on anyone else he would call the expression sleepy. “You play well,” he says, and both the compliment and the timbre of it send a shiver through him.

Jaskier gives his shoulder a light, involuntary squeeze. The fur-padded shirt like an overstuffed mattress under his touch. “Kind of you to say so, especially in the midst of song-craft throes. But the longer one polishes, the better the end result shines. Give me but a fortnight or two and the difference will be apparent to even a babe. For now, your unjudging ear and preemptive acclaims will tide me over until I find the true state of the song and can comfort myself in having carved it into something I can content myself with.”

It’s with an agitated hoist of his lute case that he bumps into Geralt’s chair, and the motion (though it fails to move him even an inch) must be the last straw to pull him out of his relaxed trace, with golden eyes finally focusing on him with their usual intensity. He stands, and it’s with that they make their way to the dining hall.

As it turns out, Geralt had already gone to the trouble of putting more meat in the oven before his ascent to Jaskier’s perch. It’s but a matter of a tickle of flame to dusty coals that the meat takes its final reheat. Never shall he tire of watching the ease with which Geralt can call upon magic. It’s beautiful—the motion and the spark, the control he exercises over it.

Jaskier almost, but not quite, forgets to stock the table with their figs. He unwraps the cheesecloth but takes none for himself, instead giving the placemat a tug to rest adjacent to Geralt, within tantalizing reach, or so he hopes.

By keeping up a running stream of animated chatter (this time of his Oxenfurt days, and the lengths he went to to learn his craft) and nibbling only faintly on his own fig, he manages to coax Geralt into polishing off the remaining half dozen. It’s no true werguild for activating his curse, but it makes Jaskier feel better—he’s as much a man of action as words, after all, and an apology is but the bread of the forgiveness sandwich.

They finish the meat and figs, pass the water bowl between them.

“You know,” Jaskier plies, “I could teach you to play if you’d like. Might be a fun hobby—for both of us. I’ve never taught anyone before,” and isn’t that an intriguing thought, to parrot back his lessons from Oxenfurt and teach another, “but I can imagine myself capable of it, and yourself a capable student.”

Geralt widens his eyes, pupils sharpening to slits. He’s already shaking his head when Jaskier opens his mouth to reassure.

“What fault do you find in picking up the lute? I assure you, no matter how bad you begin, I have heard much worse from supposed students of the craft.”

“Too fragile. I’d break it.” Geralt splays a clawed hand on the table in front of them for emphasis. The nails are sharp and thick enough to tear through meat like butter, and butter like water.

“Hmm. I suppose we’ll just have to exercise due caution, then. No playing when angry, yes? You’ll tell me before you seriously consider defenestrating my lute?” Admittedly, the thought of his lute splintering or the strings snapping is not one he cares to entertain. But it’s more important that he give this to Geralt, or at least as an honest offer. Though he dare not press Geralt on the matter, Jaskier would consider them friends, or acquaintances well on their way. The interest Geralt shows him is, to his discernation, by far more genuine and persistent than the rabble he meets on the road or in taverns and towns, and though he rarely offers stories of his own, the silence they share (little though it may be at Jaskier’s hand and mouth) is just as amiable as conversation.

And yet, each hour of it Jaskier learns to read him all the better. The flick of an ear toward him in interest, upward in surprise, or down in some form of worry-disapproval-grumpiness are his easiest tells. The hardest wrought are the tiny smiles he catches, most oft when looking up between songs or after he goes so far down a winding speech that he forgets what his original intent was at all. (Geralt, marvel that he is, manages to retain and detangle the threads, reminding Jaskier of his direction in but a single word.) Then there are the nods and hums of acknowledgment, approval, engagement. Despite his eyes rarely straying to Jaskier, or keeping low if so (and there, another reason for his offer—how often he watches his hands as he plays!), he’s never found Geralt guilty of the “smile and nod” that, of the nobility more so than all else, are predisposed to when Jaskier speaks rather than sings. Perhaps it is in that the nobility will do so to carry on with their own tirades, while Geralt has little to say for himself. But, no, that’s disingenuous. Geralt is more, cares more than that, even so.

“Here,” Jaskier says, scooting closer and proffering the lute. “I’ll guide your hands, show you the pressure needed. Allow me?”

Geralt jerks his hands, one atop the other, down and angled away as if burned by the very thought. “What if I break it?”

He retracts the lute to his lap, at least for the moment. “Mm, then I suppose I’ll have to return to Oxenfurt and give a dramatic retelling of my lute’s valiant defeat. The more creative I make my tale, the less time I would wait before the administration allows me to acquire another. A tradition of the college, you see.” He’s always thought the custom entertaining, but Geralt bleeds anxiety all the same—ears flattened and lips with the slightest curl of displeasure.

“A string?”

“I would simply go into the nearest town and acquire one. There’s time yet before snow covers the roads in and out, and if we begin now then you’re unlikely to break a string as we progress.”

Geralt moves from anxious frozen while he reasons, his pupils a slit finer than the cut of any moon before it finds itself absent completely.

“Geralt?” he ventures. Emboldened by their shared touches in the day before, between bathing and chores, Jaskier puts a tentative hand on his thigh.

A furred hand snaps down around it. Jaskier’s heart skips a beat at the suddenness of it, but Geralt is looking towards his face and right on through him. His breaths are a fraction quicker than his own now. “Don’t—please.” The lisp, heavy across his fangs, makes Jaskier wince, the reminder a sharper pang than even the tooth itself.

“Don’t what? Trust me when I say I would love to abide, but I need a fraction more to go on,” he says while carefully wriggling his chair closer yet. The clamped hand seems a lifeline to him, and Jaskier is inclined to give him more, if he’ll accept it.

“Please don’t leave.” Geralt’s thumb swings under his palm, as if fearing an escape, then releases just as quickly as the vise had set. He retracts, leaning back in his chair and twisting cross-wise to shield away from him. An agitated head-shake, horns cutting through the air, accompanies a string of no’s just above the threshold of audible.

“Shh, now, I won’t leave. I won’t, I promise. I’m going to touch you, alright?” It’s his one warning before Jaskier clears the distance and does his best to secure Geralt in a hug. The angle is awkward, but he persists for the duration of the paroxysm. “I’m here.”

Geralt relaxes only a fraction under his touch, but he doesn’t fight it in the least. “It’s—no. No, you can go. Should. Safer to leave. Smarter.”

“I never did proclaim myself smart, did I?” It’s weak, a mockery of the usual energy he might give in banter, but this fragility has Jaskier rattled, a poignant reminder of how long Geralt has spent alone. He isn’t equipped to help him, not with wounds this deep, but he’ll be damned if he leaves him to languish in complete solitude ever again. With his need to reassure overtaking the one or two shy bones he has in his body, Jaskier pushes himself upright (necessary, given their difference in heights) and kisses Geralt’s cheek. It’s a gentle and fond thing, but unwavering in his deliberateness. He lingers for the length of a full breath, the exhale a caress onto milk-white fur. Instead of drawing back completely, he rearranges limbs until they may comfortably embrace each other.

Geralt… Geralt is pliant and quiet and breathing deeper again, at least as slow as Jaskier himself. One hand lands on Jaskier’s hip, the other braces the table. His head droops forward a notch, almost squinting at Jaskier. One ear, the one of the same side he kissed the cheek of, is angled toward him.

“I will not,” he proclaims firmly, “leave you, not unless you kick me out yourself.” His arms are wrapped around Geralt’s middle, head resting atop his shoulder. 

Geralt draws back a fraction, bringing their faces in view of the other. His mouth is parted as if forming protest.

He hurries to correct any discrepancies. “I want to stay,” he says, tone the makings of a softer confession. And he does, truly. With food, water, and good company accounted for, there is little draw for him to keep his parading across taverns—whichever and as many as will take him and his song—in hopes of gathering the coin to survive winter months, where travel is unreasonable and he may wear out his stay with the crowds that frequent his overwintering residence of choice. To compare that to the pleasure of Geralt’s company and what may be his most promising chance to sit down and compose since his departure from Oxenfurt, there is hardly any contest to speak of.

And though he cannot tell how much is the desire for any company at all versus the interests in his person specifically, Geralt clearly wants him here in some capacity, so here he shall stay.

They sit like that, arms around each other (though Geralt’s are so loose and tentative he may as well be a spooked horse ready to bolt if given but a chance, his breathing—deep, steady, rhythmic—says otherwise and that is enough for Jaskier) long enough for the air to cool with the departure of the sun. He shivers and presses closer to Geralt, both fur and body heat a welcome addition.

Geralt obliges him and finally, his arms draw tighter across his back. His chair creaks, and Jaskier is ensconced in his embrace, ever so warm from the inside out.

“Tomorrow,” he says low, unwilling to break their peace. “I’ll teach you tomorrow, should that sound acceptable to you.”

A hot puff against his back, hair fluttering at his nape. “Incorrigible.”

“But you’ll do it?” He runs fingers over and through his ruff, a half-conscious act of both self-soothing and comfort. There’s no twists and tangles in his fur today. If they combed it each evening, would that ward off any further matting?

Geralt rumbles under his hand, and the vibration echoes across them both. “Mm, yes. Save me from the persistence of bards.”

“I fear if you give me but a fraction, I may carry you a full league. I am quite invested in seeing you succeed, my dear pupil.”

Geralt snorts. “Don’t push it. I’ll not call you professor.”

“A shame, that, but I suppose I’ll suffer it.” There is laughter and levity in both of their voices now, and Jaskier is glad for it. Geralt is like butter cupped in a hand, staunchly holding solid until the heat of it melts him into something more pliable. His persistence has paid off, leaving them intertwined as comfortable as can be while still sitting atop the dining hall’s unhappy, groaning chairs.

A yawn catches him off-guard, and Geralt pulls back to press a hand to his cheek. His claws extend further, fingertips bent away from him, but it’s as intimate and fond as anything else tonight. Geralt’s other hand drifts towards his jaw, knuckles hesitating to lift his chin.

Jaskier meets his gaze.

More black than gold, Geralt’s eyes roam across his face, search his eyes. It’s more eye contact than the rest of their time here put together. His head tilts to one side, and the cupped hand slips down, thumb to brush slow strokes along his cheek and jaw. What must be a full minute passes before he stops entirely, thumb nearly at the corner of his mouth.

The hand drops to his shoulder. “Goodnight, Jaskier.” His eyes have yet to leave his.

“Goodnight, Geralt.”


	5. My skin peels off like paint

Jaskier has the patience of a saint. Geralt spends the next morning ~~not training like he should~~ going over the basics of playing the lute. His claws, as he feared, make things more difficult. Still, Jaskier has unshakable faith in him, and Geralt is determined to uphold it. He is either the most generous or most foolish individual Geralt has had the fortune to meet in years.

The lute strings do not snap, even as he fumbles a chord.

From his stance, casually perched on the drawing room desk, Jaskier looks up and gives an encouraging smile. There’s a smear of dust or soot across his brow. He moves to brush his hair off his forehead, and another streak makes a path across his skin, just shy of parallel. The candelabra in his hand doesn’t seem to be the source of the filth, so whatever it was must have been cleaned and replaced already.

“Would you like me to show you again?”

Geralt shakes his head. He knows what he needs to do, it’s only a matter of training his body, acclimating to muscle memory and skirting around the elongated nails fit to pluck or shred the strings if he fails to hold steady.

“You’re doing quite good, you know. And I don’t say that lightly. My professors insisted on never giving a word of praise until we had rightfully earned it, and I think I see the merit of such an idea.” His head is bowed over the candelabra again, but the words flow freely, even absorbed in his task as he is.

He fumbles another chord, and Jaskier sneezes.

Such is their morning.

Their barrage of cleaning crawls without both of them on task, but Jaskier insists he doesn’t mind, and that the drawing room is a delightful spot for their endeavors. Good light for it, he says, like taverns aren’t half dark corners and fraying candles. But he cleans without complaint—or no sincere one, for he’ll hardly refrain from comment no matter the activity in his line of sight.

It’s the noisiest morning Geralt had in a long time. He’s surprised to admit, even to himself, that it’s not unwelcome. The lute croaks and fills the cracks, and Jaskier hums and digresses and circles back around to any manner of topic, though today he’s more fixated with the lute firmly planted in his hands.

The piece he’s working on isn’t a song yet, but a set of exercises to loosen up the experienced artist and familiarize the new. Even with it lacking supposed musical components, he suspects it does not sound as it should under his awkward motions. Strumming in and of itself takes thought, and doing so in consort confuses his hands where his mind insists he understands. It’s as if he’s stepping on a frog mid-song, and listening to it sputter besides. Or maybe a baby bird. Shrill enough for that, too.

Near midday, Jaskier falters. In an effort to clean from top to bottom, he’s making use of a chair in surprisingly good condition, or so they had mutually thought. Instead, there’s a crunch and yelp to his right. Instinct kicks in, and Geralt flies out of his own seat.

The chair’s back leg is crumpled, and Jaskier no more than tangled heap on the floor, angry as a feral cat and hissing obscenities at the chair. He glances at the shadow Geralt presents hovering over him, then does a double take. “Lute down, mister! If you want to help, do so without risking my fine lady.”

Geralt releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding. There’s only wood and dust and surprise in the air—no blood—but that doesn’t always equate to health. If he’s well enough to fret over his lute, he can’t be too bad off. Following his instructions, he places the lute in its case with as delicate a hand as he can muster then returns to Jaskier’s side, offers a hand up.

Jaskier takes it, and rises with a worrying amount of weight on him. He’s standing with his left leg raised off the ground, knee stiff.

Ignoring the wood splinters overtaking the floor, Geralt kneels and examines the damage. His ankle is already swelling, and he says as much to Jaskier, though the rest of him seems fine. He takes the liberty to brush bits of wood off Jaskier’s leg before he stands.

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll be quite alright, so long as you consider me off cleaning duty for the rest of the day. Maybe tomorrow as well,” he adds, testing the weight on his foot and shuffling forward.

Geralt helps him to a chair. They share a moment of simultaneous doubt, and Geralt presses down on each corner of the seat. It doesn’t waver. The suspicion remains.

Jaskier sits. The chair doesn’t give. “Right,” he drawls, as uncertain as himself.

Geralt snorts and hauls him to his feet, marches them to a wall and helps him slide down. He doubles back for the lute, relinquishes it to Jaskier, and then sits himself at his side, determined to watch and learn.

And thus passes their afternoon.

Dinner is a playful affair, Jaskier unable to help himself from showing off what he swears up and down Geralt will be playing by next week alone. And then—

Out here, amid the wilderness that surrounds castle Narok, there is no magic but Geralt’s own signs. No people but him—and now Jaskier. Nature overtakes all. Crickets chirp, deer bellow, the stray northernly-suited bird sings its song, and the winds howl across the landscape, through trees and the crest and valley of the nearby mountain ranges.

What does not happen is the telltale _swish_ of a portal opening.

What does not happen are twin sluggish heartbeats appearing from thin air, saturated in magic and blood so completely he smells them in the same breath he hears them.

Geralt’s hand is already at Jaskier’s arm, cautioning him in the same motion that he rises with. The wind is blowing west to east, and whoever is at the door is injured, slow. One unconscious. The other close. There’s the quiet thunk of the lute placed against the table, and a farther-off rattle of their front door. To appear within the castle’s bounds, this close to the front door, it couldn’t be anything less than intentional.

He spares a moment to grab his butcher’s knife from the kitchen. Jaskier follows. Opens his mouth, but Geralt shakes his head. Holds up two fingers then points toward the entry. A patting motion, telling him to stay put.

Jaskier shakes his head and picks up a smaller knife. Barely suited for self defense, but better than nothing if he knows how to use it. He should, traveling on his own as he does.

They exit together, and Geralt slips along the outer walls, hoping to maintain stealth until they know more. The heartbeats are muffled now, walls between them rather than their broken glass window, open to all the world, but even so he assess them. Not Stregobor, he thinks. But who? Why?

They reach the entry hall. Geralt freezes, Jaskier sucks in a tiny breath.

A woman slouches just past the doorway, and collapsed in her arms is another. Burnt skin, burnt clothes, blood crisscrossing them both.

Before he can voice anything himself, Jaskier shoves past. “Gods, what—what do we do?” he voices to the room at large. “What can we do?” this time to the conscious woman. He’s trembling, but doesn’t flinch as the woman whips her face towards him.

Blood cakes her face, a cascade from her eyes. Pain-exhaustion-grief rolls off her, a slew of pungent and sour notes too familiar to Geralt’s nose. It’s that that convinces him. He tosses his knife aside carelessly, and it lands blade-first on the stone with a clatter.

The noise draws their gaze, Jaskier twisting his head but still angled toward the woman. One arm hovers at the woman’s back, the other towards the unconscious one’s head.

“Bandages,” Geralt says, and takes off at a sprint.

He bands together bedsheets and their endless bowl of water as fast as he’s able—for the mages’ sakes, but also for Jaskier. Though it’s unlikely she’d attack, it’s better safe than sorry.

It takes more time than he’d like, but when he returns, three balled sheets in one arm and a dripping bowl in the other, it’s to the conscious mage resting in Jaskier’s arms, hanging onto consciousness by a thread. He kneels at her side. The blood soaks through his pants, into his fur.

Violet eyes turn on him through a slitted gaze. “Her first, witcher.”

“Yennefer,” Jaskier cautions.

The other woman’s heartbeat is stable. The conscious mage—Yennefer—must be bleeding from half a dozen places, and her heart tick along like a pendulum in the wind, stuttering and off rhythm. Geralt shakes his head and gets to work.

They look like they’ve come out of a war zone. Whatever else is going on, they won’t know it if Geralt can’t keep them alive. They’re all in for a long night, and himself most of all.

\---

Patching their wounds takes a long time. Longer than Jaskier thought possible, but Geralt is careful, and the endless stream of water proves their most valuable ally in keeping anything remotely clean. The sheets aren’t, but his hands are as he wipes, winds, wraps one mark after another. Yennefer, despite Jaskier trying to coax her into staying awake in a diligent stream of idle chatter, passes out an hour in, her bandages half-done at Geralt’s deft hand.

In the following downtime, Jaskier rounds up all of the bedsheets in the castle then, for his first time since arrival, explores the castle grounds in hopes of finding more supplies. It’s meager pickings, but it’s enough for Geralt to get the pair through the night.

Now, Jaskier sits vigil over their new guests. Their makeshift bandages are a tiny pile compared to what’s on their bodies, but they’re clean and waiting. Blood soaked through several of Yennefer’s bandages by the time Geralt treated Triss to the best of his ability. Thus Jaskier spent the last hour soaking and scrubbing the bloodstained set to some semblance of qualified for future utility.

But now there is nothing left to do but wait.

Jaskier needs his supplies. Neither of them will like it, but Geralt needs more to treat them, and, if nothing else, he knows he had ample soap in his travel bags when the werebear chased him off. As soon as dawn breaks, he’s retracing his steps to the river and tracking that bag down. Provided nothing made off with it, albeit with his travel rations in the lute case and the sparseness of people he thinks—hopes they’ll still be there.

A breathless groan of pain, but it’s only Triss in her sleep. Geralt said it was good, said if she’s making this much noise and stirring this often, there’s hope yet. He hangs onto that notion, but gets up to check her temperature and heart rate anyway. Warm. But is it too warm? He can never tell, but frets over her besides. Drips water across her forehead, across the bandages they’re keeping moist to her skin, and then past her lips. The tiniest bit, the most he dares, but something more than nothing at all. He’s never been so out of his depth, but that won’t stop him from trying.

Yennefer’s voice startles him from behind. “How is she?”

“I don’t know. Alive, at least, but in pain. Geralt knows more than I could ever hope to, and he thought her stable enough to go cook food for us all, if that helps.”

He returns to his post at the far wall. Yennefer’s eyes don’t follow him. Instead, she’s flat on her back and looking at the ceiling as if stargazing, almost vacant. Tired. The silence between them grows so long that she surprises him once again when she speaks. “You said he was a witcher. I didn’t know that included a fur coat.”

“Ah, not traditionally. He was cursed—” by a sorcerer, he doesn’t say.

Yennefer does. “Witch, sorcerer? Who did it? The magic around him, I’ve felt nothing like it.”

The information can’t hurt. If anything, maybe they would consider helping Geralt once at full strength. He doubts the name of the caster behind the act could do overmuch harm even so, and much less given their weakened states. More importantly than that, Jaskier would hate to see a repeat performance of his first morning here. “Stregobor,” he acquiesces. “Stregobor wanted Geralt to kill someone for him, and he refused. The more castle plants that die, the more he turns.”

“Rat bastard, isn’t he? Can’t say the rest of us care for him either. Who’d he want dead, then? Must have been a lot of trouble if Stregobor went to such extreme measures.”

“Err, some girl. I didn’t exactly press for details,” he says with an indelicate shrug. He doesn’t remember a name being given, but if there was, it wasn’t a name he knew.

Yennefer scoffs.

Beside her, Triss moans and twitches in her sleep. 

Yennefer glances her way then promptly straightens herself. She lays down like a soldier, stiff and unyielding. If it’s the pain at fault, she’s deliberate in making no mention of it, nor sound to belay it. “As far gone as he is,” she says, voice softer, “it must not be long now.”

“Long? Until what?” In no way, shape, or form does he like the sound of that.

“It would depend on the curse, but I’d say he’s apt to lose his mind. Bestial, to match the body. Of course, the reverse might be just as bad, and it seems Stregobor favors creativity. Inhuman—or moreso than a witcher already is—but with the mind intact. Does _he_ even know?”

“No,” Geralt says, rounding the corner to the entry hall, “he does not.” He hands them each a serving of meat, Yennefer’s shredded into smaller cuts and wrapped in the the salvaged cheesecloth from the figs rather than their earthenware plates. “Eat. Keep your strength up.”

Yennefer nibbles at a small piece. “So,” she says with a small, aborted glance in Geralt’s direction, “who’d Stregobor want dead?”

Geralt surreptitiously glances Jaskier’s way. He shrugs, and Geralt’s expression falls into something more neutral, pinned ears relaxing. “Renfri. Born under a Black Sun. Sign of bad luck.”

“Bit worse than that,” Yennefer says between bites.

Geralt grunts. “Not a monster. Not a witcher’s business.”

“And I’m sure Stregobor argued differently. I hardly know the man and I’ve heard an earful.”

Jaskier polishes off his cut of meat and wipes his hands on bloodstained sleeves. “What brings you here, then? Why all the, well—” he gestures vaguely at them both.

Yennefer doesn’t spare him a glance. “This far north, you might not have heard yet. Cintra fell to Nilfgaard.” This is news to Jaskier and Geralt both, if the way his ears straighten is anything to go by. “Yesterday, we fought for Soddon Hill. The Brotherhood—or, some of us at least. Twenty two of the Brotherhood against Fringilla and her forces. At—” her voice breaks. “At least half of them died. Probably more.”

Jaskier looks away politely as Yennefer wipes up her tears.

“You win?” Geralt’s voice is low, both concerned and gentling.

A hoarse laugh. “Yeah,” she says, pushing herself upright. “We beat them back. Foltest showed up at the last minute, damn him, but we won. Nilfgaard doesn’t have a leg to stand on in the north.”

Geralt steps forward, kneels at Yennefer’s side. She flinches, and Geralt backtracks, nearly tripping over Jaskier. He puts a hand on his arm, instinctively carding through the fur. They share an uncertain look.

“Yennefer,” he tries, “I think we ought to check your bandages. Is it alright if Geralt does it, or shall I?”

She shakes her head, though if it’s in response to them or derived of something else, he can’t tell. “I— Oh, bother. Either of you may, it doesn’t matter, but… My eyes.”

Her—Her eyes. Unseeing, staring at the ceiling. Trying to check on her friend, to see the two of them moving about and failing. _Oh, bother_ , indeed.

Geralt cups her cheek, gentle as he always is, and tilts her head back and forth. He pinches his fingers together with his free hand, and bright white magic sparks between them. The shadows flee, and Yennefer’s eyes dilate, but the problem remains.

“Can you see anything at all?” he asks and kneels beside Geralt.

“Not a damn thing.”

Jaskier places his hand on hers, currently twisted in the bedsheet cast atop her (this one salvaged from Geralt’s own bed). The anxious motion ceases, and he tucks his fingers under hers, against her palm. She doesn’t take his hand, but she doesn’t flinch from the touch either.

“Magic,” Geralt says.

“Yes. Fringilla’s handiwork. Nilfgaard’s court mage.” Yennefer’s hand tightens to a fist, and Jaskier extracts his fingers from where a ragged nail bites into his skin. He rubs his hand along the edge of her palm, and she relaxes marginally.

“Nothing visibly wrong. That explains it. Bright lights?”

“Quite a few. We both made a point of setting the countryside ablaze, after all. But, no, whatever she hit me with was over before I could blink. Nothing so simple as that.” She sighs and flips her hand to explore Jaskier’s hand in turn. Their palms meet, and her fingers map across joints and nails. She pauses at his lute-calloused fingertips, testing the texture.

“Any pain?” Geralt glances to their hands, but reorients to tending to Yennefer’s bandages after but a moment.

Jaskier, without an iota of subtly but with a dollop of concern, plants his free hand on Geralt’s knee and promptly traces circles into the fabric, kneading the fur beneath.

“From the cuts and such? Absolutely. You two are truly terrible healers. But not my eyes. Simply… disoriented.”

Jaskier huffs at the snub. “Well, it’s not as if there’s much to work with. Did I mention Geralt is trapped here? I’m not, mind, and about that—Geralt, I do believe I should return for my pack today. There’s not much in it, but it’s certainly closer than walking to town, and we need those supplies.”

“Any sort of ointment? Triss—” Her voice breaks again, and whoever they are to each other, they must be close. Yennefer can hardly stand seeing—or, no—hearing about her friend in such a state.

“Yes. A moisturizer, though I may be rather low, I’m afraid. Still, it’ll all go to her, and we’ll see where we stand after that.”

Yennefer rattles off half a dozen plants, though only two he recognizes by name. “Mix that with, mm, clay perhaps? There’s no honey here, undoubtedly, though that’s usually my preference. That ought to help her. As well as myself, if there happens to be any left over.”

Geralt nods his way through Yennefer’s list. Well, it seems he’ll have no compunction with Jaskier going out then, if they’re in agreement on what’s needed.

He glances out the window—still dark, but only just. Another hour and there should be enough daylight to head out. “Geralt, you’ll have to draw—or maybe you could talk me through it, Yennefer? I’ll need to know what I’m looking for.”

\---

Two white flowers, one yellow, three herbs. A slip of paper in his jacket with drawings (Geralt’s doing) and notes (taken between Yennefer’s words and his own hand) will guide the way if he gets turned about, but he hopes his quarry will not be too tucked away in the depths of the wilds.

A curdling scent on the breeze is a too-strong reminder of just what can be found outside Narok’s walls. With deliberate defiance, he ignores the berserker carcass he knows sits at the far edge of the courtyard. There’s not a doubt in his mind—their visitors need his supplies, his help, and it’s not as if the notion hadn’t crossed his mind already for less urgent reasons.

First, though, he has another duty to attend to. Across the courtyard are flowers aplenty, one or two of the intentionally staged acquisitions from Narok’s prime, but mostly a smattering of wildflowers. Between the two, the former pressed against the castle and the latter taking to wide open spaces, is his small mound of dirt, carefully scraped together to provide… whatever it is these flowers need to grow. He never claimed to have a green thumb.

The replanted flowers are slouched, but he packed the dirt high enough around them the weakened stems have yet to give way. It’s a near thing, though, and he sighs, despondent for having caused Geralt such troubles and being unable to repay him in any meaningful way. Still, he crouches and tips the pail. Water runs off the mound, pooling in the furrows at his feet.

The sun warms his back as he waits for the water to saturate, and he shivers at its contrast to the chill morning wind. One more tip of the pail and his meager offerings run out. Time to go. His ankle throbs at him in complaint, and his chest twists with worry as he departs the front gates (one wide open and unable to latch, the other falling off its hinges entirely—the berserker’s doing).

Down the path, along the riverbank. No matter what he encounters, no matter the growing pains in his ankle, he’s been entrusted with a job and he will see it through.

\---

Jaskier leaves as soon as the sun rises. Yennefer hears the door, open-shut, a heavy and creaking swing. Geralt retreated from her side the instant he finished rebandaging, and she almost misses his presence. The air is cold, the floor colder. As if on cue, she shivers. Tucking her head into her shoulder only strains her collarbone, and she retracts with reluctance. She doesn’t trust the cuts not to get infected, and she can’t afford to deal with that right now. Not on top of everything else.

A shuffling on her left. “Cold?”

She hums her assent, and Geralt crouches down behind her, still off to the side. She resists tilting her head at every noise, but it’s a near thing. With her head throbbing, it’s hard to tell up from down.

More shuffling, cloth and stone and fur intermingling. Heat radiates outward. The shuffling stops.

“You can come closer. I don’t bite,” she teases.

Geralt draws closer, and now she can feel the thick layer tickling her arm. She leans into it, drowsy though not especially sleepy. “You make a good pillow,” she says, albeit she hadn’t entirely intended for that to exit from brain to mouth.

“Thanks.” Amusement tinges his words. She swears she can hear a smile.

A hand drifts through her hair, then abruptly stops. “Is this alright?”

“Yes, please, do keep going.” It’s nice. She can almost forget—

She can’t forget. But she can pretend, at least for a little while. (Too many dead. Was it worth it?)

“So, witcher,” she says, breath puffing against a wall of fur and muscle, “which will it be, do you think? Is your mind you own, or will you lose that along with your body?” Never let it be said she’s any good at small talk. But it’s a distraction, and perhaps an urgent one if the chill in the air is anything to go by. Castle Narok is far enough north. First frost can’t be long behind.

“He wants me to contact him when I change my mind,” Geralt says, still carding through her hair. “Might be that’s an infinite contract. Might be I have a deadline, frost or no frost. Depends on Renfri. Depends on Stregobor.”

“Hmm, that does show a degree of promise. How are you to contact him?”

“Crack a crystal open. It’s in my room. Did it once already, but he came when I was asleep. Tied me up before talking. Gave me another, and I haven’t touched it since.”

“It must be political,” she says, half to herself. It nets her an inquisitive hum, so she continues the thought. “If he simply wanted Renfri dead, she would be dead. No mercenary would stop to ask why, provided Stregobor coughed up the right price, and I doubt money is of any object to _him_. So it must be political, having a witcher killing a child of the Black Sun. If you take on the contract, he could argue for them to be reclassified as monsters in the eye of the law.” The fingers in her hair falter. A nail brushes her nape as he withdraws. “Then he could move freely, though I don’t know how many of those children remain. He’s been unfortunately thorough and successful in his aims, if I can take those who have spoken on the matter at their word.”

Yennefer reaches out with a wide sweep and connects with his bicep. She traces her way down and clasps his hand. “With that in mind, I am glad, then, that you refused his contract. Though at what cost to yourself…”

“Doesn’t matter. She’s innocent; I won’t kill her. Simple as that.”

“How noble of you. If only all the world was so benevolent.”

They lapse into silence, and Yennefer takes the opportunity to reposition herself, press against the heat the witcher exudes and block the out the rest of the world. Unsuccessfully, if not for her own wounds—a demanding ache no matter how she turns—then for Triss at her side, restless even in sleep. The only comfort is she has yet to wake even once and is spared the feeling the full extent of her injuries.

“Why here?” Geralt’s voice rumbles pleasantly against her.

“Ah, that would be Tissaia’s doing—another of the Brotherhood. Triss and I may have… angered certain individuals in power, and it would have hindered further negotiations of the Brotherhood with King Foltest had we remained.”

“Sent away while dying?”

“Not quite,” she scoffs. “The Rectoress has more faith in us both than that.”

“And Castle Narok because?”

“I can’t speak to this being her first choice, but it keeps Triss and I out of the line of fire of both Temeria’s forces and those in the Brotherhood that… disapprove of our involvement. Far enough north Nilfgaard is of no concern either. No doubt, she expected it empty. Stregobor does keep us quite informed to his… successes.”

“Popular, aren’t you?”

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it, witcher.” Any force in her words is undermined by a yawn.

A hand settles on her shoulder, and Geralt’s breath teases her neck. “Sleep.”

She knows better than to think the underlaying thread of anxiety will keep her up for long. Her body is exhausted, magically and physically. She needs to heal. But still, she regrets she can’t outpace her thoughts forever.

“Wake me if anything changes,” she says with a tilt of her head toward Triss.

Geralt hums behind her, and Yennefer sleeps, dreaming of parasites, explosions, and fire.


	6. It rattles the bones of our fathers / Carries whispers from the dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I really expect a hyperfixation to last long enough to get a fic done? No. But stubbornness demands that I posted this fic so I'm gonna see it through. Feel free to @ me if I'm missing any tags or there's some glaring mistake, the reason this wasn't posted way earlier is EFD and editing aren't getting along.

Jaskier returns earlier than he expects. With his ears out for any change in the heartbeat of the mages, Jaskier’s tromp up the castle stairs rings loud and clear from his hovering in the kitchen. (With infinite meat, why shouldn’t they have hearty meals? The mages need to eat as much as they can stomach in the name of their healing, and Jaskier’s miscellanea will run out sooner rather than later, given his generous hand.)

He meets Jaskier in the hall, pulling him aside to speak freely without disturbing Yennefer or Triss. “Everything alright?”

“Oh, splendid really! Here, allow me—” He beelines to the dinning hall. Out of a pail—the same he intended as a floral centerpiece their first morning—he pulls out loosely gathered bunches, spreads the five types of plants across the table. Arranged to his satisfaction, he nods at the array then moves to drop the satchel across from them.

Geralt gives the plants a critical eye and sniff, but Jaskier did better than he could have hoped—no mishaps, no poisons. Just what they had asked for, other than being one short.

Meanwhile the satchel Jaskier had left behind, as it turns out, is a plethora of goods and entertainment. Bedding and bardic tools comprises most of the space, but there’s three bars of soap (sandalwood, rose hip, apricot) and an ointment that he’s tempted to put to use immediately. In the interim, he hovers beside Jaskier as he fiddles with the contents, arranging things into loose piles. Dirt—and now charcoal, as he pools his writing instruments—stains his skin.

“I had good luck of it, as you can see. The celandine, however, eludes me. Is it an entirely necessary component, or would we be better off making a paste with what I’ve already found?”

Geralt shakes his head halfway through the question. “The celandine keeps infections at bay. We can use your ointment to keep the burn from drying out and cracking, but we still need to prevent infection, and we’ll have a much harder time treating Triss if it sets in.”

Jaskier doesn’t seem too distressed by this news, bobbing his head like the answer was to be expected. “Then my search continues. I take it the rest of my findings are acceptable?”

“They’ll do.”

“What high praise. Well, if you have no corrections to make on my wares, I’ll leave you to it.” He gestures at the ointment and soaps on the table.

Geralt nods, picking them both up, and together they walk to the entry hall. Jaskier opens the door as Geralt beelines to Triss where the water bowl already waits, settled between the two mages. “Be safe,” he says, chides, pleads just before Jaskier leaves and the door swings shut.

Jaskier glances back, pail in hand. Nods and smiles as if he’s merely off to the market, not into scarcely-trodden wilds.

They couldn’t afford to have him come back hurt, much less be wounded to the point he needs fetching. More than that, though, Geralt doesn’t _want_ to see him hurt. To have his kindness repaid with blood…

Triss shifts beside him, drawing his thoughts back to the matter at hand. Time to get to work.

\---

Yennefer wakes with a scream on her lips, and eyes flying open. The former hardly registers except as one more pain affixed to her body, and the latter does nothing at all.

“You’re safe, Yen! Deep breaths.”

The words are far away. Sodden swims in her vision, flames and blood, burnt skin filling her nose and screams in her ears.

An arm clasps her body, and she attempts to make a sound, any sound, then realizes she’s already screaming. Geralt drags her upright, and she feels his breath through the cushioning of their clothes and his fur, a slow dirge encasing her.

“Shhh, you’re safe. Triss is doing well. Do you know where you are?”

She nods, but can’t find her voice. Long nails thread through her hair, pet at her scalp.

“Easy. Deep breath for me, now.” The words are a pleasant rumble against her. A hint of lisp bleeds through. She chooses to focus on that and tries imagining his face in lieu of her friends—some dead, all scarred, and at least two she doesn’t know if… If…

She doesn’t know.

Geralt pets her hair. The steady drag of it provides a much needed distraction, and she could almost be lulled asleep again if she did not fear her dreams so.

With her breaths evening out, she pulls out of Geralt’s grasp, reluctant though of her own violation. With bedsheet in hand and feeling like a child, she tugs the sheet over her legs and pools it around her chest as she tucks her chin near her knees, legs pulled to her chest.

“Talk to me,” she says, voice wavering somewhere between demand and plea. She’s off kilter from waking, but even so there’s little need to put on airs around a witcher. Not the gossip-monger of the century, that one, even if years of presentation drilled into her head and living as a socialite run a murmuring stream contrary.

He may have saved her life, and is going out of his way to help her and Triss both. She’ll grant him a measure of honesty.

“Jaskier came back.” There’s a rustle of cloth against stone as he shifts.

“And you didn’t wake me?” She lifts her head and levels a glare in his direction. While physical control is lost to her, she’s clinging to scraps of information—about Jaskier, about Geralt’s curse, about Triss—as tight as she can. Triss slumbers beside her in a castle inhabited by a bard and a beast, as if a fairy tale, and it’s all she can do to keep appraised of the situation and be their ears until one or both of them finish convalescing from the albatross Sodden left behind.

“It’s only been a few hours. You need to sleep. Triss is stable.” His s’s slur. The fur, the claws—that she could feel in passing. What distortion to his face has left him with this? A muzzle? A maw of bestial teeth, ready to rend flesh from bone? If he looses his mind, how damned are she and Triss? “Doesn’t have celandine yet anyway. Was going to wake you for that.”

“Hmph. Be sure you do, witcher.”

“Yenna?”

Yennefer’s breath leaves her in a relieved gasp, as if she had been drowning and Triss’s voice were her air. “Triss?” She reaches out, exits her cocoon of blankets and crawls along the floor in search. “I’m here.”

A too-big hand with fur and the trappings of rough pads against his palm guides her. Geralt places her hand on Triss’s shoulder and grunts. “You need to eat.” He exists the hall as quick and quiet as a cat, and were it not for his words and the hint of displaced air inches away from her, Yennefer could have missed his departure entirely.

“How are you feeling?” She knows Triss must have other injuries than the burn at her chest, but even so she runs her hand over her arm, hoping to touch only unblemished skin. Either she’s successful, or Triss clamps down on any noises of pain.

“Have you ever sat around a campfire and roasted marshmallows? I feel like one of those, the ones that fell off the stick and into the fire. All crispy on the outside, melted on the inside. But I’m alive, and you’re here, so things could be worse, right? Did we win, at least?”

“We won.” The words are thick in her throat, choking on the phyrric victory. “Do you remember Tissaia moving us? I couldn’t tell; you were so restless.”

“Can’t say I remember much past the gates.” Triss’s hand clamps around her own in solidarity and comfort. “Are you alright?”

She makes a noncommittal noise, her free hand fluttering uselessly over Triss. She wants to help, to take care of her, but the truth is, she’s less helpful than Triss, who can at least see her own bandages and ointments.

“I—the burns can’t be that bad, can they? My face doesn’t hurt much, so it’s not that. Why aren’t you looking at me, Yenna? Did—are the others…?”

Instinctively, her eyes flicker to where she supposes Triss’s mouth is. “Yes—I mean.” She clears her throat, tries again. “Maybe half of the Brotherhood survived. Foltest swooped in at the last second, saved the day. Don’t know everyone who died, but—Sabrina. Vanielle. Lytta—Coral.”

Triss makes a mournful noise and resecures her grip. Yennefer takes comfort in it. The woman she loves is alive. Strong. Strong enough to avoid succumbing to burns and infection and magical exhaustion. And grief.

“And you?”

The words trickle out of her like molasses on a cold day. “Fringilla got to me, not sure with what. I can’t see. No pain though, at least there’s that.”

“Ooh,” she says, sympathy and worry lacing the noise. “I—Here, can I sit up?”

“Wouldn’t recommend it.” Geralt’s voice startles her, though she doesn’t belay it with all her attention and energy directed toward Triss herself, who tenses at his approach. His footsteps are no more noisy with his return. “Here. Eat. You too, Yennefer—whatever you can.”

The furred hand taps her shoulder, and she obligingly raises a hand to accept Geralt’s gift. More meat, plain and greasy and gamey. She doubts there’s anything else around, but perhaps she could persuade Jaskier to go gather herbs and spices if nothing else…

Geralt is kneeling at her side. The heat radiates off his body as strong as a furnace. Part of being a witcher, or part of the curse? The sound of tearing meat fills the room, and it dawns on Yennefer he must be shredding it into strips for Triss.

The silence grates at her ears, no more than the brush of cloth and skin, claws and meat. There’s no alternative to eating—this is no magical intersection, and she’d be hard-pressed to pull from anywhere less than overflowing with magic—but the meat sits heavy in her belly, uncomfortable from the knot of stress she’s bundled herself into. As soon as she’s confident she won’t topple from wooziness or exertion, she’ll go to the courtyard and meditate. If she’s to get better, recover her grasp on magic, she needs to do that and more.

She breathes easier with Triss awake, but she won’t settle entirely until she contacts Tissaia and hears of the outside world. And that won’t happen without magic and her beck and call, so she had best get over that anxiety gnawing at her belly, sending her heart tight and overworked.

Triss taps her knee, drawing her out of her thoughts. “Won’t you introduce us?”

“Ah, where are my manners?” She sheds her Vengerberg accent like a worn coat, invites the court-driven politeness into her voice like second nature. “Geralt, may I introduce Triss Merigold of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. Triss: Geralt of Rivia, witcher and an unfortunate cog in one of Stregobor’s machinations.”

“Ugh, whatever has that man gotten into now?”

“Same shit it always is—vying for a contract on one of his girls.”

“Gods! Always the same with him. My sincerest apologies on the behalf of our organization, Geralt.” Triss directs the next sentence at her. “Certainly not this minute, but we’ll be breaking this curse for him, won’t we? It seems we owe you for taking care of us, Geralt. Let it not be said we’re ungrateful to our generous host.”

Geralt, and they’re sitting close enough for her to feel his limbs lock up as he pulls away from her, stiff under the barrage of their words—Geralt hmph’s at them and says, “It’s fine.”

“I dare say,” Yennefer says, “your definition of fine must be a great deal different than our own, if you’re alright with the path you’re going down. Something tells me a witcher’s goal isn’t to become the sort of monster that needs slaying.” She isn’t sure what he hopes to gain by denial, and, in fact, they all stand to lose their lives if he maintains the facade for too long. No, denial won’t do at all.

“Let us help you, Geralt. I’m sure it won’t come to that.” Though her voice is too kept to reveal it to their third party, and she can’t see her to know her expression, Yennefer knows Triss well enough to be aware of when she’s being chided.

“Fine.” The lisp that curls his words and the growl in his voice conflict with each other. Is she to be scared of such a mutated soul or pity him?

Triss surprises her by reaching for her, a hand upturned in her lap. She takes it willingly, but it isn’t until she speaks it occurs to her Geralt must have snuck—to her ears—out of the room.

“That,” Triss proclaims, “is one hell of a curse.

“Mm. How far gone is he, do you think? He has until first frost, allegedly.”

“Very,” Triss says without hesitation. “He’s not got much more humanity than a werewolf. Man of few words too, though that might be a witcher thing. The one in Temeria that died before you showed up—Remus—he wasn’t any more chatty than our fellow here.”

They spend a few minutes in silence. Triss’s breaths are more labored than she cares to hear, and Yennefer herself is exhausted. Though she hasn’t said, Yennefer can’t imagine the amount of pain she’s in. And her hair, all lovely dark locks, are long gone, raggedly cut away from catching in the cross-fire of the incendiary attacks. Beyond even the injuries, it will be a long time before either of them resemble their normal selves. Perhaps a past self entirely, unable to be reclaimed again.

“You’re thinking too hard. I can see it,” Triss says with a pat to her arm. “Sleep, dear. I’ll still be here when you wake, I promise.”

“It’d be unlike you to break your promises. Don’t start on me now, Triss.” Shooting for playful banter keeps landing her in emotional territory. Emotions she’d rather sit back and process quietly than breach now, but the wounds are raw. The trickle of water through a broken glass, they keep seeping and weeping through the open gashes in her psyche. At least when it’s with Triss, that vulnerability and trust goes both ways.

“I won’t. Now go sleep. Take care of yourself, Yenna. I’ll be just around the corner, waiting to make sure you’re eating and healing up right.”

They fall asleep holding hands. Yennefer dreams of fire, but this time there’s someone to catch her as her world crumbles.


	7. Interlude: But the wind has picked us up now

Roach faces a moral dilemma.

She hasn’t seen Geralt—her poor, foolhardy Geralt—in months. Two extra nights at the inn before the innkeeper had declared her not worth feeding, and two more than that before her new rider made an approach. Ever since, Renfri took care of her passingly. Never with Geralt’s attentiveness, but she rarely faced an empty belly.

Now, though—

The shouts of men and women rumble behind her, as loud as thunder, as the beat of a hoof against stone. Renfri is low against her back. Arrows whiz by, near enough to grazing that Roach knows one unshakable truth: Renfri’s life is near to its end. Though loyal to the hand feeding her, there many she holds with even greater regard, and she will not believe Geralt dead.

Tardy, as always, but never dead.

She cannot go faster, and she cannot go much farther either. Last night, a scout for Renfri’s former comrades picked up their trail. They’ve ben running ever since. Renfri seems to think a witcher’s horse has magic of their own, or perhaps does not know the stouter breeds that chase them are built for a kind of endurance she is not. She will not last; Renfri will not live. Bucking her off is a last resort, but last quickly approaches.

Overgrown bushes thwap against her side as she takes a bend in the road as close as she dares. Her flanks steam with sweat and flecks of blood.

Renfri will die, and Roach will die with her, except—

Except she smells _wolf_ on the path. She flares her nostrils, desperate to chase the scent. Wolves, her wolves, not the mutts they’re so named after. And the fresh scent of horse in her nose too, registering as _family_ , unquestionable in its familiarity. Eskel on Scorpion. The path continues straight. The scent does not. She veers with a violent twist, liable to throw Renfri off.

A shout of dismay, but her rider must know the stakes of this fight as well as she. She’s already clinging on for dear life. There’s a muscle-deep pressure in her left flank but no other sign of upset, and Roach barrels forward, dodging trees more and arrows less now that she has the cover of the forest. Someone is bound to outmaneuver her here in the rolling terrain, catch up close enough to secure a shot. But by then, she hopes to have an ally.

Taking heaving, stressed breaths as she launches herself between boles and across bushes, she musters up the air to whinny, a desperate plea to the woods. Winds willing, Eskel willing—

Scorpion answers with a cry of his own. Distant enough that she must press on, but _he knows, he’s here_.

Renfri yells and heaves atop her, a jerky slam against her neck. Roach can’t look, can’t falter for even a second, but her hay’s on an arrow finding its mark. Yet she hangs on, cursing and hissing to Roach and the wind.

Blood hits her hindquarters in splatters and rivulets. Sweat flies off her belly. Arrows fly too close to their marks. Still, she keeps her pace.

Eskel emerges from between the trees, Scorpion a stalwart blur beneath him.

There’s only one way to stop this many in their tracks and she knows it. She can’t stop, has to get past them no matter how much her lungs want her legs to give up.

Scorpion whinnies, a wild sound, loud past the heartbeat in her ears. From one side… to the next, the sound flows past her as they exchange places.

She’s safely behind, and Eskel casts. The flames, the men, everything is a roar behind her as she slows (too quickly for aching legs, too slow for racing breaths).

Renfri will live, and so will she—live to see her wolf again.


	8. I’m the touch you crave, I’m the plans that you made, but fuck all your plans I’m bored

Geralt growls at Jaskier over the remnants of breakfast, two weeks after Triss and Yennefer’s arrival.

“Now, now, Geralt! You’ve got big enough hands, I know you can master this chord. Ease up just a tad, you don’t have to lock your joints up like that.” Jaskier prods at the knuckle of his ring finger.

Spitefully, Geralt eases up, as told, and his claw twangs the next string over. The note rings sharp and loud in the hall, one of many missteps he’s made in the past hour.

“There, now,” Jaskier says, bowed over his elbow and repositioning his fingers as if playing with a wooden doll. “Again.”

He strums, keeping the fingers of his hand on the neck locked into place. “Wonderful! Wasn’t that better? The full scale, please.”

The first chords he’s more than used to, but the jump to the last one is slow, fussy, complicated.

As promised, Jaskier has run him through all the drills he recalls of his Oxenfurt days (a generous number, and it comes out that his esteemed bard was even professor there for a year after graduation), and Geralt can coax the lute to croon out a slow ballad or three, but the faster the song, the clumsier and more frustrated he finds himself.

When he’s as liable to snap the lute as he is some sharp retort in Jaskier’s direction, Jaskier relieves him of the lute and returns to his composing, spinning music from wood and gut as deftly as a siren. One night, tired after a late dinner and long bout of song, plastered against one another for warmth and comforts of a different sort (speaking to such soft places in him even after Geralt thought he had lost such tenderness in the Trials), he doesn’t quite mean to let the comparison slip out, but it does, and Jaskier responds with glee. He admits, though not without a great hush and far-away look, that he does have some elf blood from his mother’s side—but he is wondrously pleased to know Geralt thinks so highly of his singing as to be compared to a monster known for its sweet song.

Now, Geralt watches in newfound appreciation as Jaskier thumbs through patterns, testing each in the air like a scenting snake. His eyes are on Geralt or out the window as often as the lute itself. Meanwhile, he can hardly look away from scurrying fingers, one note dancing to the next. There they sit, long enough for the sun to move and send a dazzling, sparkling array of colors across skin and fur, wood and stone, the stained glass now alight with the full affects of midday sun.

It’s a beauty he didn’t let himself linger on and appreciate before Jaskier arrived. Now, he listens as Jaskier sings of it, of cool winter mornings and sunrises and prisms.

As midday makes its approach, ushering the outside world into some semblance of warmth, that’s Jaskier’s cue to go with Triss and tend to the plants. She’s been sending him on more and more errands—daily, now that he’s fetching for cooking supplies as well as alchemical mixes to accelerate their healing—and in the meantime she stays within the castle walls. Yennefer is farther along the healing process than Triss is since, with the strangest of ironies, the druid can’t partake of magical mixes herself, though it is her specialty among the Brotherhood.

Yennefer’s sight has yet to come back.

For that alone, Geralt finds her company more often than Triss in her waking hours (who’s always with Yennefer or outside), unable to leave with Jaskier on his excursions no matter how much he wants to protect him. (He’s loathe to admit it, the worry of Jaskier coming to harm so great he can barely breathe around it some afternoons, but the things he and Triss can do with a few extra herbs in their food is divine.)

“It’s peaceful out here,” Yennefer says on one of their many days bereft of their usual partners. She’s positioned with an ear to the smashed dining hall window, sitting on one chair and legs outstretched on another. For all she seems familiar with the graces of court, she seems about as enamored with them as Geralt is, which is saying something. “Have the people of Kovir really never ventured here?”

“You can see a mining settlement in the northwest tower. That’s the closest anyone’s come, and they stick to the southern path when they do come and go.”

“Sounds like you’ve been watching.”

“Not for awhile. Had a lot of free time before you showed up.”

“Why, don’t say it like it’s a _good_ thing, Geralt. Even you must have an upper limit where solitude is concerned.”

Jaskier’s lute rests loosely in his grip like the last leaf of autumn clinging to its branch as winter rides the coattails. Though he stopped playing earlier, when birdsong caught both of their ears, he considers playing it now in lieu of answering. But there’s something in Yennefer’s tone—no, not any old thing. Concern, the eternal partner of worry with the scent of freshly upturned earth. Gritty, even in the air.

It had been a long time since he warranted that scent from another, and all of it in spades from his fellow wolves. Now he has Jaskier. Now too, it seems, he has Yennefer. When you dig your hands in the soil and pull a plant from its root. When you wriggle a stone lodged in the earth and pry it loose. The scent fills the room the longer he goes without replying.

His finger twitches against lute strings, the diversion all but ringing in his ear already. Without looking up, he offers, “I occupied myself. A witcher walks the Path alone. I’m no stranger to solitude.”

“Occupied with what?”

The earthen tones mute, but don’t dissipate entirely. “Training. Meditation. Sightseeing.”

“The tower,” she says dryly. “A very invigorating few months, I’m sure.”

“Have food, have water. Least Stregobor’s a gracious host.”

Yennefer snorts. “I suppose if anyone’s suffered worse accommodations, it’d be you.” Her tone tips darker, scent twisting into something too sweet, like an orange left to rot. Not quite fearful, but close. “I’m surprised he hasn’t given up on you, Geralt. You’d be a tough nut to crack on a good day, and Stregobor is no fool. He knows his arguments for Lilit’s children fall on deaf ears.”

“He said first frost.” Not that he’d take that particular mage at his word, but it’s all he has to go on. It’s what he keeps telling himself. One month, give or take a matter of weeks. And then, and then—

“Which is soon. What will happen if you lose your head, wolf?”

The growl that slips through his throat doesn’t comfort either of them. He flinches back at the involuntary noise and drops the lute in his lap in the same stroke, only belatedly realizing his increasingly tight hold on the innocuous instrument.

The chair scrapes and squeals against the stone as he stands, depositing the lute on the dining table. He stalks to Yennefer’s seat, places a hand on her forearm and taps at her wrist. “Up.”

“Where are we going?” She rises begrudging. Geralt will have to lead her through the castle’s dips and bends, and she would have none of it if she could—not the guiding hand, not his company.

“Up.”

But Yennefer needs them, needs him in this here and now, and until then, he has an obligation to her to ensure her safety, and, preferably, peace of mind.

Up they go, taking the stairs—past the drawing room Jaskier is so fond of, the waft of alchemical brews down the hall, the mutual bathing house—and into the topmost and farthest corner Geralt could stuff himself into. Into the main bedroom, likely for the nobility themselves, then one more door and staircase past that, into the tower. Yennefer follows dutifully, sensing either his discomfort or determination. The final pass is the most difficult, steep steps leading to a trapdoor, but Yennefer trusts in his senses and reflexes if nothing else and they make it to the top.

The highest point in the castle. The most remote. And also the only one he has piled all the pewter he can find—tins and goblets and jugs and vases—beside the only way in or out.

He guides Yennefer to kneel beside the pile. She takes one item in hand after another. Perplexed, a rich scent just shy of cacao and curiosity, dusty with confusion.

“The moment my mind slips, I come up here. One blast of igni and they’ll meld to the door.”

Yennefer stills, and for a moment her scent falls away to little more than a day’s natural accumulation. Shock, a smooth shell of nothing. She swallows, the sound loud in his ears. Her heartbeat is the only noise louder. With a sharp twist toward him and aggravated shake of her head, she says, “No, not—hmph.” Her chin juts out, and he tastes the steely tang of defiance.

It’s inappropriate given the seriousness of the conversation, but for a split second he finds himself amused to know what talking to himself must feel like. Fragments and grunts.

“Before you come up here, I want you to come to me—me or Triss. One of us should be able to muster it, even as we are now. We could enter your mind, see… Try… I’m not sure what. Too much hinges on what the curse designs to do to your mind, but I swear to you: we _will_ try, Geralt.”

“You shouldn’t. If we already know my mind is slipping, it’ll be too late.” He won’t take anyone else down with him, no matter how fast or slow his descent into bestial might be. With all his training, all his time on the Path, his last act will not be to harm or kill an innocent. It’s that fierce gut-burning determination that he’ll cling on to, even if the his simulacrum of humanity falls away. That will be enough to fuel the fire, literal and metaphorical, until he can secure himself in this tower with no escape. It has to be.

“If we get enough warning for you to sequester yourself away in this tower like some damsel in distress then we damn well have enough time to enter your mind, for whatever it’s worth.”

“Not much. If it happens, don’t fight it.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Metal, sharp in the air, sharp enough to cut as she whips toward him. The visual effect is lost as she fumbles to find his arm, but he acquiesces the limb and she tugs, fingers curled tight around his wrist and nails slicing under fur to rest at the skin beneath. “Don’t presume to tell me what to do, Geralt. I will fight it—for you, for me, for all of us. Even if you are an ungrateful lout. You don’t get to save us then roll belly up without a fight when your time comes. There’s a debt to settle between us, and more than that, I am starting to care about you. That is not something I am in the habit of doing or offering, Geralt, so know that I speak true. We will hardly be in more danger for putting your isolation off an extra minute should the change take over you at a speed, and I will not stand for something so foolish as nobility stand in the way of a final bid at wrenching you from this nightmare. Do you,” she says pointedly, forcefully, “understand me?”

“I think I’m beginning to,” he admits. Steel determination coats the back of his throat like a bitter poison—or medicine. He isn’t sure which.

Yennefer nods as if his understanding was the forgone conclusion.

The understanding will have to come with time, but the acceptance, it seems, must come now. He is not to sign over to his death without Yennefer’s approval. For the first time since Blaviken, hope stirs traitorously, a spring breeze flap against his sternum.

\---

Jaskier’s motivated downstairs in the morning for the lack of three things—the warmth of a fire, food in his belly, and, most importantly, his lute, which he’s been more often leaving in communal spaces for Geralt to pick up as whims dictate. It’s easier to coax him into practicing this way, as opposed to their structured lessons of his first weeks of playing.

He wishes would have paid more attention to the first.

The dinning hall still possess the early morning stillness of a day, where the air is cool and crisp and birdsong streams through the open window as bright as the sun itself. The stone oozes cold even through his shoes, and he would draw his feet up if he thought he could still play his lute properly.

Triss and Yennefer join him after a few minutes of warm-up strumming and tittering, sitting across from him hand in hand. Geralt predictably emerges with four slabs of meat, two stacked on top of one another in each hand. He lays them out, and Jaskier puts his lute aside for their morning meal.

“Mm, smells quite delicious, Geralt, thank you. Is that the last of the mint?” He rolls a sprig between forefinger and thumb, appreciating his latest find out in the wilds.

Geralt pulls out his chair and _growls_ , growls like nothing he’s ever heard before.

For a heartbeat, a breath, they’re all frozen.

Geralt opens his mouth, lips parted enough to reveal sharpened teeth, far beyond human or even the slightly too-large too-sharp present at his own arrival. Jaskier is close enough to hear the helpless, noiseless breath that escapes the open maw. And then, he whines.

“Fuck,” Jaskier says for him.

That spurs them all into action. Geralt stands so quickly he tips his chair backwards, which clatters onto cold stone (cold, too cold—more than enough for the outside to have frozen over) and splinters. Yennefer calls out his name pleadingly, and Triss is on her feet too, the only one with a modicum of grace between them.

Jaskier stands too, a beat after them and already reaching for Geralt, but he’s stumbling backwards, all confused cries and whimpers.

“Don’t you dare,” Yennefer threatens, and Jaskier isn’t sure what she means, but it’s enough to stop Geralt in his tracks so that’s enough for him.

Triss approaches him from around the table, not quite cornering him, but definitely blocking off the main exit to the rest of the castle. “Geralt, I need you to relax. You’re too agitated right now, your mind will be putting up shields—blocking anyone out even if you were totally comfortable with them. Yen told me the plan, alright?”

What plan?

Geralt stops putting distance between them, but Jaskier can’t help but compare him to a skittish animal ready to bolt. His eyes are wide and wild, ears swiveling, and his breathing is more labored than a witcher’s should be, though only marginally out of balance were he human.

Afraid, but not all gone. Jaskier hesitates, not wanting to crowd him, and yet… Another transformation. If he gave him space now, would he ever have the chance to give him anything but?

No. Geralt is still himself, and Jaskier fully intends on comforting him, helping him through this. Just as his fangs grew in weeks ago, just as his hands have grown thicker, more foreign in shape with a gradual slant only visible to the keen eye—or the one teaching him to play a string instrument.

He hasn’t left Geralt yet, and what’s one more physical change?

“Geralt,” and he keeps his voice as steady and tender as it’s wont to be when spending time with him.

His ears swivel, upright and facing him.

It’s not often he chooses to accompany his actions with silence, but the overwhelming weight of the transformation skyrockets Geralt to his breaking point, and so Jaskier holds his tongue as he steps closer. One foot, two, until he can reach out and touch.

Golden eyes meet his, and though the growing muzzle and misshapen nose and wider iris stand out now that he searches for the changes, it’s still the eyes of his friend. Jaskier clears the distance between them without further ado, arms reaching around a broad back to pull Geralt into some much-needed comfort. A horn digs uncomfortably against his scalp, but he merely snuggles closer, into the prodding bone. He strokes along his back, trying to smooth the fur under his shirt in a now-familiar trod motion.

“Never fear, dearest witcher. I have you, you’re safe.”

Though the words are stream-of-conscious, they have the intended effect, and Geralt, already slumped and the picture of dejection, gives a minute shift that Jaskier interprets as an improvement on “trying to make himself small” and in the direction of “hugging his very good friend, Jaskier.” Or so he hopes.

He presses an encouraging kiss to the side of his jaw, an act of his more common during private lute lessons and at night, but Geralt doesn’t pull away from him despite their audience. “Now, now. Chin up for me, lovely? Ah, there we are.” Jaskier doesn’t want to force him to meet his gaze, but that, too, has been more common as time passes, and Geralt looks him in the eye without hesitation. It’s stress-ridden, certainly, but not an iota more than stress-ridden staring off into the distance. “Take a deep breath for me,” he murmurs toward the shell of his ear, which twitches, and for the first time since his rumbling realization, dips down into a more relaxed stance. “Good, good.”

Jaskier raises his voice and angles himself toward Triss, who hasn’t moved but a step or two toward himself and Geralt since their hug. “Now, what’s this about mental shields? A plan?”

Triss looks to Yennefer first, who’s still sitting rigid in her chair, staring at a blank point approximately halfway between himself and Triss. Without a response, Triss deflates and explains. “Yenna and Geralt talked the other day, about what we might do if the curse takes greater hold. With our magic recovering, we can use telepathy to check in on him, should the need arise. If he’s okay with it.”

Geralt’s ear pins back, not the alarmed fear of earlier, but still uncomfortable to a degree.

Jaskier looks at him, tries to read every microexpression for an answer to the unspoken question. He’s staring, this time a little to the right of Triss herself. Nervous. Bracing.

He makes an executive decision. “While that is a most kind and generous offer,” he says with a flourish, “I do believe we’ll pass on that right at the moment.” Nipping back to the table, Jaskier grabs his lute, draping it over his shoulder, then their cuts of meat and waves Geralt on as he politely pushes past Triss, who backs away with an apprehensive glance between the two of them.

Geralt, for his part, looks quite relieved. His face rests more neutral than taut with worry, though the rest of his body remains wrought with the morning’s stress. He follows Jaskier out the door and takes his hand, trusting him to lead them somewhere comfortable.

That place being his room.

Geralt hesitates in the doorway, but Jaskier strides and pats the side of his bed as if it were any other day of the week. The familiarity seems to do as much for Geralt as it does for him, and he sits wriggling his tail out of his pants without thought.

The fact he’s comfortable enough to do so tugs one more string out of the equation, loosening the knot in his chest.

Jaskier hands the meat off, sets the lute under the bed and between their feet. Their shoulders touch, and Jaskier takes one bite before he has to prod Geralt into further motion, laying a hand over his and pushing his thumb into his cut of meat. “You’ll feel better once you eat, I’m sure of it. Nothing worse than trying to think on an empty belly. Composing most especially.”

Geralt shoots him a skeptical look.

“Creativity has prerequisites, just as any other task in life! Its primary need boils down to no distractions, and one of the many distractions is a growling stomach. Or a full bladder.”

Geralt snorts, though it’s raspier and more sneeze-like than before.

Well, he’ll take derision if it means he’s eating. Jaskier grins playfully and takes quick, tidy bites of his own breakfast.

They polish off the food with a surreptitious wipe on the side of the bed, and Jaskier pulls his legs up, evening their heights out.

“Geralt.” Hardly more than a whisper of breath to tickle the air, but he knows Geralt will hear him. He always does.

An ear twitches toward him. Suddenly, all of Geralt’s little tells that he’s picked up on, grown to recognize as intimately as a note in the air—there’s greatly increased importance in each and every one, for they’re all the communication Geralt has left. (Jaskier can’t see him resorting to a whine or yip or howl, not intentionally or under duress or, at the very least, in some matter of urgency.) Taciturn though he was, even his contemplative hum, of which he could catalog a thousand different breeds, has been taken away from him.

He wants to fill the air between them with words, to make up for Geralt’s lack. But what is there to say? There are no words of comfort he can give, bar one. “I’m not leaving you. No matter what happens next—” and Geralt looks worried, a pinch of his brow and ears flicking back, “No. I understand your concerns, but I refuse to abandon you to your fate, whatever it may be. I’m not leaving you to face this alone.”

His hand rubs a soothing up-to-down along Geralt’s upper arm. Gold eyes flick between his hand and his face. Jaskier sees the worry fade to longing, still pinched but with ears relaxing to neutrality.

He pulls Geralt into a hug. “You have me. I’m not leaving you, not for the world.”

Geralt shivers under his touch, a shuddering sigh as his body arches to accommodate an armful of bard. Claw tips touch his neck, as fine and light as pins and needles. The cling to each other for seconds, breaths, minutes. Jaskier is happy to hold on for as long as he needs, as long as Geralt wants it to last. He swears he feels a hint of moisture at his back, a spot fractionally under where Geralt has tucked his jaw, but his breathing remains as steady as metronomes, and it’s not like Jaskier needs to draw awareness to it to understand.

He would mourn more than most, were he to lose his voice. For Geralt—he’s told Jaskier what it’s like to walk the Path, and words are often his only and final defense against the prejudice of humans. His only weapon in retaliation against the unending war.

Geralt eventually sits up, pulls back and looks away, eyes distant for all they’re affixed to the gray stone of the castle. Jaskier takes his hand and threads their fingers together, and it’s enough to draw his gaze to their hands.

Geralt’s are no longer human-with-claws, but something wider and more compact, fingers thickening and a furless, leathery patch forming along the upper arch of his palm that scratches oddly against Jaskier’s skin, hand in hand as they are.

They both know what “next” is.

But for now, Geralt’s hands are intact and Jaskier will not mourn what is not yet lost. Keeping one hand with Geralt for a last, lingering moment, he ducks down and retrieves his lute. Now he relinquishes his hold of the former, proffering the latter to Geralt with a flourish. “I want you to hang onto this.”

Geralt sits up straighter, one ear swiveling upright and eyes widening.

“Yes. Yours for as long as you care to play it, dear.” Or can, but he’d rather hold on to his fractured slivers of optimism where he is allowed it. “You’ve been coming along so well, and you can play for me while I sing at night.”

The lute rests flat in Geralt’s hands, across his lap. For a moment, Jaskier doesn’t think he intends on responding at all.

Then he pulls the lute to his chest and plays eight notes. Once, twice—

Jaskier groans, lolling his head back to tap against the wall. “I should have never taught you that!”

The same eight notes. Geralt grins unrepentently, canines flashing bright and bold.

“If your goal is to bring me to consider smashing my own lute, you’ve done it. I hope you’re proud of yourself, Geralt! That was supposed to be a stepping stone for greater things, not my own personal torment.”

The eight notes in question are part of Pachelbel’s Canon, considered by professors to be a lovely orchestral piece and by string students everywhere to be unworthy of its fame. He hadn’t thought about it in years, much less played it, but he had taught it to Geralt in hopes of, well. Not this.

Geralt plays on, and finally Jaskier caves to his better angels and laughs, flicking Geralt in the shoulder in beration.

Geralt finally—blessedly—stops his own personal form of torture and school-day reminiscence in one, and lets the lute fall to the side, the shoulder strap long since adjusted to suit his body’s needs. He pauses, ear twitching with a thoughtful expression, and sets the lute under the bed as Jaskier had done. Then he closes the distance between them and shoves his nose into the crook of his shoulder, hands strewn lightly across Jaskier’s back.

This isn’t the first time he’s scented Jaskier in a moment of happiness, and he lets him drink in the scent, apparently a fragrant delight to his witcher-y senses. Jaskier combs through the thick mane at his neck. He’s glad, in some strange adaption and accommodation of Geralt’s heightened senses, that Geralt can smell it on him. The fondness in his heart is so warm and full he feels as if he could burst with it. He does, in fact, if one considers the vibrancy of his emotion and lines them up against the songs he sings when. An expulsion and celebration both.

With Geralt, he doesn’t need to say a word at all—simply live in the emotion, and he exudes the scent, can share it with his witcher. Honey and wood smoke, Geralt said when he asked. The most often scents of joy, tangled up in food, sweetness, and cooking. Contentment veers more toward a person’s natural scent, smells like rosemary and thyme on him. Says he smells of it more often than not, especially while one or the other strums at his lute.

Jaskier loves him so much, and hopes his scent conveys as such as he strokes between his horns. Fleetingly, he wonders if Geralt would permit him to braid a flower into his hair. Perhaps a rosemary sprig one day, though the bush evades him among the rocky footholds of Kovir and Poviss.

He kisses the top of Geralt’s head. His ear twitches in a quick back-forth, a pleased waggle.

“You menace, see if I teach you anything easy ever again. It’ll be all fourth-year work for you, just you wait.”

Geralt looks up, golden eyes shining with mischief. Despite the pains this morning have brought, he looks happy—happy to be here with Jaskier, a casual sprawl across his bed speaking to his comfort and security. Weeks, and he revels in Jaskier’s presence and words.

Jaskier swallows against the overwhelming strength of his adoration rubbing up against his fears, the ever-present hint of worry that he’s too much, that nobody could tolerate him for long. Geralt isn’t like that. If he was annoyed, he would tell him, not leave him guessing. And if he doesn’t like this, well…

He leans in, a question in his eyes. Geralt feels the shift in his intensity and matches it, hooking a hand behind his head as soon as he shifts closer, stretching across his nape and coaxing his eyes shut. They flutter open just once more as he brings their lips together, watching for Geralt’s response. His gaze is soft and fond, and the hand in his hair has yet to falter.

Jaskier kisses him with the passion brewing in his gut like a witch’s love potion. Fur tickles his skin as he shifts, moving with their momentum and pressing their bodies as close as clothes allow. The heat of it entices him, and he nips and licks in gentle if excitable bouts of fanfare, a tangible ode to their bond. Geralt reciprocates in kind, keeping the kiss right on the cusp between chaste and inflamed.

His hands wander Geralt’s body, stroking and massaging in all the spots he knows Geralt falls apart under in a bath, and here they incite a felt-more-than-heard whine, the vibration a heady thing against his skin.

“Beautiful,” he breathes, and he’s not sure if he means Geralt himself (which Jaskier would be the first to argue he is, even under the curse) or the noises or how reactive he is to touch.

Geralt ducks his head, and Jaskier takes the opportunity to tug at his shirt, pull them horizontal. The bed isn’t meant for two, but the forced closeness is still welcome, and Geralt, bigger than Jaskier though he is, tries to worm his way into his arms. Jaskier ends up half on top of him, one arm propping him to the side with fingertips brushing Geralt’s arm. They lay chest-to-chest, and there’s a shy avoidance that wasn’t there before. Geralt refuses to meet his gaze, and toys with the sheet off to the side, plucking and twisting between forefinger and thumb. Jaskier wraps around him like a limpet and presses an unadorned kiss to the side of his throat, and another at his jaw. He relaxes marginally, eyes slipping shut with a quiet exhale, but keeps a fistful of sheet in his far hand.

“Geralt? What is it, dearest?”

He noses into Jaskier’s chest, horns butting into him as Jaskier tries to envelop him in his arms.

“Is it okay if we lay here for a bit? If I hold you?”

He nods twice, a sharp motion. Certain.

Jaskier holds him. Presents him with slow strokes along his sides, neck, arms, all going with the direction of his fur. Dares kiss his temples once, and Geralt rumbles, a pleased note from his chest. It’s not quite a hum, more arwoo than wordless, but just as endearing. Jaskier smiles and wriggles, fingers seeking purchase at Geralt’s back and shoulders in an effort to hug him as long and as tight as they each desire.

Geralt shifts, accommodating his squirming, and they find themselves pressed together, perfectly aligned from head to toe, both on their sides and grazing hands where they prop themselves up. His eyes are open again, and Jaskier stares openly at the molten gold. He doesn’t shrink away.

“You should know, Geralt,” and the words are loud in the quiet they’ve cultivated in the room, “I adore you. You, not your body in any one shape or another. Though I treasure your words, their loss will not be something to drive me away. You communicate through body language more than you did your words, even when you had them. I see you, and I will strive to understand what weighs on your mind no matter the barriers that follow. What I want you to know and understand is this: whatever this curse does to you, it cannot change the way I feel. I love you. And if there’s anything I can do to bring you added comfort, you need but show me and I will comply. I enjoyed kissing you greatly and I believe you did too, but if you wish to keep it in small doses, or to not progress an iota beyond that, then so it shall be. Is that something you would like, dear?”

Geralt’s eyes have flicked away several times during his speech, and now his gaze settles on Jaskier’s face while not quite meeting his eyes. He meets them now, however, and holds up two fingers.

“Two—ah, it’s not the kissing you object to, then?” Jaskier grins, happy to hear just what it is his witcher needs.

He shakes his head, leans in, presses a small kiss to the corner of his mouth, still upturned in a smile. Jaskier can’t will it away, and so they share in the sensation of lips-to-skin without progressing, comfortable again in their coinhabited space.

“Good, good, I’m glad to hear this is enjoyable for you,” Jaskier says between kisses. “You’re a treasure, Geralt. Now—” he pushes himself upright, off his numbing arm, “would you like to tell me what it is you’re trying to distract yourself from? Normally I can hardly pull you away for a minute without you training after breakfast, excepting our lute practice.”

Geralt sits up with a huffs, warm breath ruffling his hair. He tries to lean in for another kiss, placating, but Jaskier puts a finger on his nose, which seems to perplex him so thoroughly for a moment, eyes crossing and a crease in his brow, that Geralt halts the motion entirely.

Jaskier purses his lips, avoiding a laugh. He’s supposed to be serious here! Geralt clearly has more he needs to get off his chest (not including Jaskier himself, in the more literal sense), and he of all people knows what it’s like to bottle stewing emotions up. To give them release by putting them to word. He simply has perfected the art and found an avenue for it to make him money.

“Come now,” he entices, “we can go back to kissing, or we can have another bath if you’d like, but not until you show me what’s still bothering you. Should we pay a visit to Triss? Is it something you’ll need your mind read for to communicate?”

Geralt’s face screws up (brows dipping low, one ear giving a wide roll and downward flick) in distaste, and Jaskier suspects that will be something else to address as the day or days go on. If the mage can pluck words from his head, would that not be better than suffering in silence?

But he looks at the door of the room in contemplation, not dismissing it outright, even after his initial reaction. He shakes his head then stands up, searching the room. He narrows in on it, and hovers over Jaskier’s journal.

Mostly comprised of stories he doesn’t wish to forget and scraps of songs, half-baked lyrics, it’s more filled than not, but he would gladly give all the remaining pages up to Geralt’s hand if that enables his communication. He’s done more with less while on the road, and his need far outweighs his own.

He’ll simply have to be more persistent in singing his new songs out loud to get a taste of them, come down to it. And that’s _if_ Geralt finds need of all the pages.

“Of course, please go ahead.” He inclines his head, waits for Geralt to transcribe his concerns.

It doesn’t take long—he should have known better than to think Geralt would prove any more loquacious on paper than in speech. Geralt returns to bed, passes him the journal, and oh, how thoughtful he is. Instead of a blank page, Geralt has found a scrap near the start of the journal where Jaskier failed to make full use of the page. Two thirds down reads: _They’re still recovering. They should conserve their magic._

Jaskier frowns at the statement. “I’m sure it cannot be the most strenuous of operations if they’re offering it so immediately in response to your predicament. Also, something tells me that’s not all that’s bothering you, dear. Are you—would you rather write to Triss or Yennefer? Or you can have a page all to yourself and simply think things through on paper, if you’d like. Sometimes that’s the only thing standing between me and screaming. Perhaps it would ease your strain as well?” He pats Geralt’s knee and passes the journal back.

Geralt doesn’t move to write more, not yet, and instead studies Jaskier intently. He roams his face with eyes and gentle hands, a fingertip to his lip, a caress to his jaw. Jaskier leans into it and shuts his eyes, unsure of his intention but a willing participant besides.

The hand recedes, and Geralt tucks himself into the journal shortly after. It’s longer this time: _I’m not worth it. There is no end to this curse in sight. I won’t be able to give you more stories for your songs. I won’t be able to play your lute. It would be better if you left me, and safer. Do not feel as if you have to stay on my account. Return to the rest of the world and sing your songs, bard._

Jaskier is torn—should he be affronted that Geralt thinks so little of him? But no, that’s not what this is about, not really. _I’m not worth it,_ he says. _Leave me._ Jaskier knows how it feels to be tossed aside, deemed not worth the effort, and he has no desire to turn around and inflict the same upon another, much less someone so kind and brave and selfless as Geralt. Witcher, protector of the world, and his friend.

Frustration will not serve him here, and so he places the journal aside with a delicate hand and turns to Geralt. He’s worrying his lip with one of his too-sharp canines, and Jaskier reaches out and smooths over his lip with the tip of his thumb. “I’m not sure who convinced you of your worthiness, Geralt, but let me be the one to tell you—you deserve so much more than what the Path has given you. You speak of roads walked alone, and I am telling you it does not have to be so. The people who fear you? Give me the chance, and I will change their tune. Your curse? You have two very powerful mages downstairs who would love to give Stregobor a piece of their minds. I know time is of the essence, but Triss and I are coming along with our gardening, and Yennefer is stronger by the day. We will find a solution to this, Geralt. Triss—I’m not sure what she’s told you, but they have friends in high places and they _are_ high places. Former court mages, both of them. Between the four of us, I have the upmost confidence that we will find the end of this. And when it happens, I should like to walk the Path with you. You’ll be alone no longer, my dear white wolf. Simply give us the chance to prove it to you.”

Geralt keeps his face deliberately blank, but his ears are pinned back even as Jaskier takes his hands with a flourish.

Jaskier holds on for a moment longer, then passes Geralt the journal. It’s but a breath later it’s returned to him: _I don’t know how._

“How?” he asks out loud, musing over his little speech. “How to trust us, you mean?”

Geralt nods, hesitant and with a canine digging into his lower lip again, and Jaskier’s heart breaks for him a little.

Jaskier blinks back the hint of threatening tears, feeling as unsteady as a fawn. Geralt stiffens, eyes wide and ears flicking upright. Jaskier shakes his head, dispelling his overly careworn and empathetic heart’s tugging, and pulls Geralt into a hug, one hand automatically winding itself into Geralt’s thick mane. They sit there in silence for a dozen breaths. Once he finds his composure, he leans back with a parting caress to his cheek. “Let me take care of you as I already have—with the baths and combing your fur out. Alert us to when you are in want of a helping hand or listening ear. Permit yourself hope that there might be resolution to this curse—after all, you’ve seen more curses broken than most, haven’t you?”

He nods, a slow dip of his head that presents his horns to Jaskier.

“Is that acceptable? Do you think I ask too much? Is there anything I—or our mages—might offer than renders this an easier task?”

Geralt takes up the pen: _A bath sounds nice._

It takes Jaskier a moment to translate from Geralt-speech. Not a diversion—he’s asking for something he wants. Letting Jaskier take care of him.

He fully intends to follow through.


	9. Interlude: But beneath all of our panting / There’s this noise I cannot shake

Roach wants to get out of her saddle, but she wants to get away from flaming forests and bold bandits even more.

Scorpion wheels around in no time, Eskel’s job of an impenetrable flaming barrier more than enough to deter Renfri’s unwanted entourage. The black stallion trots smoothly into place beside her as their riders take up conversation.

“Where did you get that horse?”

“Who’s asking?” Renfri tenses up, her legs clenching against her sides. Blood drips intermittently down her flank.

Scorpion swings his head closer, sniffing at her neck. She’s too tired to so much as huff in return. They’ll have to pick up pace in no time, but for now they walk, and Roach catches her breath.

“Someone who just saved your life, so get talking. The rider?”

“Horse was left at Blaviken’s inn. No sign of the witcher for days.”

“And you decided stealing a witcher’s horse was in your best interest? How long ago was this?”

“Months now—Late spring?”

Eskel curses vehemently, and Scorpion twists his head, examining his rider’s agitation. Roach nickers in quiet agreement with the wolf. She hopes he’ll be able to return Geralt to her.

“Tell me everything.”

“Not much to tell. He came into town reeking something fierce. A kid ran off with him, said she’d show him where to sell his creature in tow off at. Kid turns around and tells me, for the right price, that Stregobor wanted him for something—that’s Blaviken’s resident sorcerer.”

A distant shout grabs her attention. Her ear twitches, and Scorpion looks back entirely. A neutral whinny—not in sight, then. But close enough. Her breaths come easier now, but the thought of taking off again, even at a trot, has as much appeal as biting into a rotten apple. She snorts her disapproval, and Scorpion keeps pace, though not without a stamp of his hoof to show his displeasure.

“Who’s after you? Seems they want you dead pretty badly.”

“I was the leader of a small band of mercenaries. Got set up. A lot of good people died, and I didn’t. After that, I went on the run. Came across some of the survivors in a foxhole of mine—seems they had the same idea I did, except they didn’t take kindly to sharing with the likes of me. Might be misinformation, might just be bad blood.”

“That shoulder of yours looks pretty bad.”

“Get me out of here and I’ll live, witcher. Just keep moving. That fire’s as liable to kill us as anyone still after us.”

“Got you out of there, though.”

“You sure did. Can’t argue with those results.”

“Think you just were.”

“Oh, shut it, witcher.”

The shouting from before is back, closer. On their left flank. Scorpion snorts, and his next hoofbeats hit the ground louder. With an aggravated huff of her own, Roach takes off and Scorpion follows. Almost like old times, if not for Renfri on her back.


	10. (How long can this last?)

Geralt wakes warm, warmer than he’s been in years. At brothels, it’s rare to find anyone brave enough to sleep with a witcher at their back. Here in Jaskier’s bed, the sweet honeyed heat emanates even in his sleep, a fresh, rosy contentment. (Or not of the contentment itself, but of the rose hip soaps they washed down with yesterday.) The bard is fast asleep, and even in sleep he hums and whispers. Nothing of import and half intelligible entirely, even to his ears, but there’s a happy murmur as Geralt shifts, his arm pillowed under Jaskier during the night, and rolls him on top of his chest. He moves with caution, not wanting to wake him before he’s quite ready, but he needn’t have worried—Jaskier mashes himself closer yet and remains deep-seated within his dreams.

Dawn creeps over the horizon, but today he has no desire to leave his bed. This is a special occasion, he thinks. Just this once.

Every witcher would deny sleeping in in the face of anything less than a Gull-induced hangover. Geralt is no different, but he can see the merit of it if this is what the humans so look forward to.

\---

Geralt can’t sleep. He’s not the only one—Jaskier was subdued over dinner, only playing a handful of songs and not singing at all as they listened to, and felt through the window, the wind rattling the walls of the castle. The skies are were heavy, gray, and oppressive all day. Tonight, a blizzard blows in with all the might of an angry god. Triss and Jaskier made a point of covering the plants outside, tucking bedshets over the most flourishing, or so he’s been told, and weighed down with salvaged furnishings. Then they had brought him around to a side room—servant’s quarters by the looks of it—and showed off a cluster of plants Triss was trying to coax into taking root indoors, just in case the curse might accept those as part of the living matter in the castle. The were vibrant cuts, but Geralt’s hands still ached.

They do worse than ache now.

Jaskier lays beside him, still and quiet but unquestionably awake as Geralt jams his interlaced fingers together. He doesn’t know what he hopes to accomplish, and the pain of it has him gritting his teeth. The increasingly inflexible digits burn, on the verge of dislocation or worse. He doesn’t want to give in. He has to give in. There is no stopping a curse in motion, not like this.

Above the roar of the wind, a loud pop and sharp, blooming pain in his index finger tells him just how much good he’s doing, which is to say none at all.

“Geralt—”

It’s the first word Jaskier’s said tonight since laying down and pretending to sleep. It’s choked and teary, and Geralt doesn’t know why he’s here. Jaskier doesn’t need to see this. He jerks upward, intending to retreat to his own room so at least one of them can get some sleep. The pain takes another stab at him, and an involuntary whine escapes him, no different than a gasp of air—but so different he stills with the shock of it.

Jaskier takes the opportunity to encircle him, arms across his torso and legs bracing him on either side. He smells miserable, as damp as the weather outside, like salt, like a wet beast seeking shelter from rain. The touch is a welcome reprieve.

A reprieve, but also a distraction. His fingers slip. There’s a wet crunch like a bug underfoot and no more.

He’s left with a hot, wringing tangle of pain and a memory of hands where there are now paws.

Jaskier couldn’t possibly see in this light, but he must have shifted, made some other noise because he seems to know it’s over. “Oh, Geralt,” he says, as soft as velvet. “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he murmurs against his ear.

He can’t speak. He can’t write or train or cook or do anything he’s good for. He can’t play the lute, as creaky and slow though he may have been, not even to please Jaskier.

Jaskier, who holds him, keeps him upright when Geralt can only run on borrowed strength. Who tells him, “Remember to have hope, dearest,” and asks, “Are you hurt? Is there anything I can do?” while Geralt sits stock-still, feeling as fragile as blown glass.

For the first time since receiving his medallion, Geralt lacks even the pretense of purpose.

“Geralt, are you with me?” A hand on his neck, scratching a slow downward stroke through his thick fur. Blunt nails barely penetrate, but between pressure and words he leaves his cyclic thoughts behind.

He forgets himself, opens his mouth to reassure Jaskier. A sorry-sounding whine escapes, _awooh_.

The hand at his neck freezes.

Fuck. Jaskier wasn’t just asking if he was listening, but if he was _himself_ still, and Geralt had answered with a wolfish non-confirmation. He twists, divesting himself of Jaskier’s hold, to try and cradle his cheek in hand—another thoughtless motion. His paw is clumsy, and worse yet, he can’t dry Jaskier’s tears without the risk of his claws tearing skin. Nevertheless, he leans in to press a similarly clumsy kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. _Yes, I’m still here. It’s still me, I still know you._

Jaskier hiccups, but there’s a giddy note in it. Relief is a weak but clean fall stream, pollen thick in the air and the decay of leaves underfoot. He kisses Geralt back—three little touches carving a path across his fur—and presses his paw against his cheek.

He can feel his heartbeat in his own paw, but Jaskier’s touch is a soothing balm to its incessant throb.

“Good, good—wonderful. You’re so brave, sweetling. It’s okay to make noise, it’s okay if you can’t keep the pain inside. You don’t have to be quiet around me. You know I would understand.”

Jaskier must understand something Geralt does not, then. To whine and yip and bark would be to give in to the curse, and this is the one thing he can resist without pain. The one part of himself he can keep separate, outside the curse’s influence. If he gives in at all, it would be to relinquish his mind with it, to roll over and accept his fate.

His measure of hope may be a decaying, shriveled thing, but so long as he is the one in control of his actions, it lives, a tiny and dormant seed waiting for the caress of flame, for changes in the rest of his world to bring it to full life.

Geralt remains silent. Jaskier never does, and he appreciates him more than ever for that fact of life. He cannot ask, but he does not need to. “You don’t have to deny yourself what you have. Not your voice, and not Yennefer’s offer, either.”

Healing faster than Triss with magically-infused potions, Yennefer declared herself Geralt’s interpreter for when the time came. Triss’s burns and slow path to healing would be aided by deeper magical reserves, but Yennefer was near hale and whole, her sight aside.

The night wears on, battering the castle like a peasant’s old cloak, a final, thin veil of protection against the elements. It seems inconceivable that nobility would have ever agreed to live here, but then, the walls have worn down with time and no fires run except that which Geralt maintains by igni.

Half asleep with Jaskier in his arms, he shivers. Minutely at first, then with an increased violence. Had he the mind to, he would notice it was not cold that pierced his body so, sent pins and needs across his thighs, hips, back, and chest.

But lost to the stress of the night, he doesn’t realize until it’s too late.

Jaskier is calling his name, trying to talk to him through the haze of pain, but a series of snaps and clicks ripple through his body like a sinuous wave, one continuous motion of pain. It’s like muscle soreness, bruising, and broken bones rolled into one. It is like the Trial of Grasses.

His chest barrels outward under his nose, shoulders strain in their sockets under the magically-induced pressure. The wind howls, and Geralt howls with it, crying with the force of the changes as his ribs expand, bones crunching as his spine and hips realign.

The shaking wracking his body subsides, and he collapses, toppling forward with his neck twisting at the harsh angle. He pants, eyes shut and processing the vestige pinches of pain.

“Geralt…?” Jaskier’s voice is lemon-nervous, sour in his nose.

 _Awoo_. The quiet huff is the best he can do for now. He lowers the back half of his body, unlocking stiff joints one at at time, tender the whole way down.

Jaskier is pressed to the wall, staring at him with one hand half-outstretched, closer to his own chest than to Geralt.

Geralt takes two more heaving breaths then shuffles his front paws forward, extending his neck and plopping his head in Jaskier’s lap, who promptly starts petting him between his horns. His head hasn’t changed much but for the more prominent muzzle, though immediately below there’s a crick in his neck from where he’s already straining the sore flesh to look up and forward as a man, rather than even and ahead as the wolf-beast he is.

Hands wrap around his cheeks, thumbs cradling him under his jaw. There is no moonlight from the cloud-thick skies, nothing for Jaskier to see by, but he meets Geralt’s eyes by chance anyway, and Geralt drinks his fill of apatite blue eyes looking down on him with worry, but not a trace of fear. Citrus lingers in the air, but never turns rotten.

He could almost fall back asleep like this, Jaskier stroking him through the worst of the lingering pain, if not for the door opening.

Triss pushes the door open with slow, deliberate caution. Jaskier calls her in, and she emerges, magelight in one hand and Yennefer at her other, her hand at her back.

Geralt flops his head back down into Jaskier’s lap, turning away from the pair. With exhaustion writ within every fiber of his being, he hasn’t the strength to look them in the eye and answer their questions. Look if they must, but he blocks them out, meditating to block the world out. Jaskier never falters, and pets him until he sleeps.

There’s no mental intrusion, not yet.

\---

Geralt walks the castle, subdued. His joints ache with the effort, and each touch of the pads of his paws to the cool stone reverberates up his limbs with the force of the reminder. Triss’s scent spiked rotten when they spoke of starting a fire and cooking breakfast, poisoning the air. Yennefer offered to try, and Jaskier was quick to reassure them, take her place.

With Jaskier preoccupied, he sneaks away.

His feet take him to the drawing room.

The potency of Jaskier’s scent—honey-golden, rosemary and thyme—comforts him. It shouldn’t. He’s well beyond his last metaphorical or literal leg. They know what could be next. The blizzard renders the grassy fields white, sparkling and glassy.

He watches the snow fall, wondering what his brothers must think. If they’ve heard anything of a missing witcher, if they’ve passed word to Vesemir any rumors collected along the Path.

Does he hope them to think him delayed, in another region? Or would it be better for him to be declared dead, lost walking the Path and gone from Kaer Morhen for good?

Jaskier finds him like that, staring out the window and longing for the only home he’s ever known.

“Breakfast is served, my dear,” he says with a smile. His scent says otherwise, tinged with dampness piled on him as surely as snow to the branches outside.

The meat is burnt on the outside, nearer to raw on the inside. It’s never come up that he eats raw meat regularly on the Path, and only ever ate the venison as such before Jaskier arrived. Jaskier makes a disgusted noise biting into his own food.

As for Geralt—he eats both cuts.

Jaskier sits beside him. “How are you feeling today, dearest? Is the pain gone?”

Geralt looks at him without betraying his response. It serves no purpose, Jaskier knowing how badly he aches, how each twist and step roils under his skin like a numb limb waking up.

Sensing his mood, Jaskier changes topic, waving Geralt closer. (He ignores it, sitting half facing the window and half to Jaskier himself, situated several feet away.) “Triss and I are going to uncover the plants this morning, see what state they’re in. We may have to shovel some of the snow off, but I know I saw at least two in the stables, so it shouldn’t be too much of a hindrance. Would you like us to tell you what state they’re in once they make their debut?”

His mind is white with pain, as blank as the snow-clad landscape before him. He doesn’t know what he wants, doesn’t care about the plants. They’ve died. Surely that is all the news they need.

“Geralt?”

A hand touches his flank. He jumps back and growls, body curled to a defensive semicircle arched away from Jaskier.

The snarl dies in his throat. Fear, rotten and wilting in his nose, tainting the previous joy of the room.

Jaskier is on his feet, eyes wide. He flees the room, and Geralt’s body shakes while his mind rests static, silent and unfeeling as a numbed limb. His day, in summary: asleep and cut off until waking brings the pain back.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before Yennefer joins him. Triss ushers her in, helps her to a chair. Geralt doesn’t move from the window. Now that he’s blinking back into awareness, he sees Jaskier crossing the courtyard, heading to the front of the castle.

Yennefer clears her through behind him.

What good will it do?

“Look at me, Geralt.”

Jaskier’s visage disappears into the stables. The landscape is an unblemished white.

_Look at me, wolf._

The words hang in his mind like a dangling string in front of one’s eyes. He stands, turns, looks at her obediently. Pain laces each step, each brush of air across tenderized flesh a needle-sharp reminder of his new stature.

Her eyes may be unseeing, but magic doesn’t care. Windows to the soul, and Geralt meets her gaze if only to ensure she doesn’t overextend her magic to help a lost cause.

“You’re not a lost cause, Geralt. Last night—I contacted someone.”

If she wants a response, he has none to offer.

“Tissaia de Vries. The one who sent us here. The raven should reach her within the week. Magical, so the snow is of no consequence to it. She has connections we do not, and if anyone will come back with insider information on Stregobor’s plans, should it exist to any ear but his own, it will be her.”

Jaskier’s voice drifts faintly from outside. He twitches, the artificial noise one too many with Yennefer’s already a disquieting vibration in his skull.

“Damn it, Geralt!” Yennefer slams a fist against the table—not hard, but hard enough for the sound to rattle around the room like the thump of a drum.

He tenses up automatically, a snarl at his lips before he can consciously choose a thing.

“It’s not—your mind is a mess, Geralt, but it’s not the curse, I can see that much at least. You’ve scared Jaskier twice now, do you really want this to keep happening?”

Yennefer’s scent—lilac and gooseberries and upturned earth born of concern, possibly for him or secondhand and lingering for Triss, and rusty agitation—burns his nose, burns through Jaskier’s dwindling, week-old scent of joy.

“I cannot save a man who doesn’t wish to be saved.”

I’m no man, he thinks.

“No, but nor are you a beast.”

Is he so different? With the way his contracts treated him, he may as well be—neither smarter, friendlier, or safer than any feral wolf, and no more deserving of food than that which he hunts himself.

“To hell with them all, Geralt. You could have done anything to us, demanded anything of us when we arrived, and you didn’t. You saved Triss. You saved me. You’ve never so much as hedged a cost for it, no bid for repayment when you know we have the means to get you out of this, or at least a passing attempt.”

Why should he have? He has no authority, no way to enforce anything. Food, shelter, money—those were the payments a witcher could work with. Information was only as reliable as the hand it came from, and aid could only be trusted as much as the one offering it. To say, he could count on none of it aside from what his fellow wolf may give him, and those morsels were dolled out in winter alone.

“Yenna, Geralt! We need you downstairs, please!” Triss’s voice beckons them, faint and distant.

Yennefer hesitates. Geralt walks to her side.

I don’t mind, he thinks.

“You’re hurting.”

I’ve had worse. Triss needs us.

His words snap her to attention, and she reaches out. Her hand strikes halfway down his flank, misjudging his height. Prepared for the touch, he doesn’t growl, but his skin jumps and quivers like an agitated horse at the contact. Still, Yennefer’s hand threads in fur at his back, nestled between his shoulder blades, and they proceed in halting steps. The contact gets less intense as they go, getting Yennefer across the hall and down the steps more occupying than the needling ache under his skin.

They reach the bottom of the stairs, and Yennefer calls for Triss. Then it’s to the dining hall.

There, Jaskier holds a thin slip of a girl in his arms and Triss coaxes a brazier to flame.

Geralt doesn’t know what to make of it. Neither, as it turns out, do they.

“Geralt! Good, you’re here. We could use your fur coat right about now, if you’re feeling up to it.” He really does seem to mean that, as if he has a choice. But the girl’s lips are almost as blue as her tattered cloak, and he walks with the most vigor he’s felt since his transformation to sit at Jaskier’s feet.

He eases the girl down, and Geralt slides down with her. Jaskier tucks her cloak under her, a barrier against the floor, and Geralt tentatively rests his body over hers, angled to have his paws on the floor on either side of her, but his neck to her stomach, ribs to her legs. His tail swings back around for an added layer of warmth. Jaskier squats behind her and props her half-upright again, then kneels and tucks her head to his chest, her upper back propped against his legs. Between the two of them, she’ll warm despite the wind blowing in from behind, the snow piled inside their hall.

Unprompted, Jaskier explains. “She was in the stable, wedged into a corner and shivering. Didn’t wake up when I moved her, but had stopped shivering by the time I reached the castle.”

“Hypothermia set in,” Triss says, mirroring Geralt’s own assessment.

Geralt sizes the girl up. She’s not especially old, nowhere near old enough to be on her on. Thin, as if she had been losing weight—sunken and pale, though it’s hard to tell how poor her coloration is beyond the cold saturating her. Dirt encrusts every part of her, dried flecks of mud splattering her clothes, and gloves entirely coated by a cracking layer of it.

In short, she has been on the run for quite some time. Her scent confirms it, her emotions in sleep so muted to be buried by layers of grime and general body odors.

Triss and Yennefer seem uncertain of how to proceed, hovering awkwardly around the bundled trio they make on the floor.

Jaskier hums, a dusty earthen scent drifting loosely off him. “Let’s, hmm. Say, Yennefer, would you be willing to take my place while I cook the girl some food? And Triss, is there anything, err, medical-y you can offer her when she wakes?”

Triss is slow to answer. “Tea? There’s nothing wrong with her besides the malnutrition and a chill, or not anything visible, but a cup of tea never hurt anyone. I’ll see what I can come up with.”

Yennefer is kneeling beside them. Jaskier coaxes her closer, as his replacement, and Yennefer takes up the mantle, curling around the girl as if she were as breakable as fine china. Jaskier will have none of that, and nudges her arms into place around the girl, as much skin to skin contact as they can manage.

Jaskier and Triss disappear into the kitchen.

Yennefer asks the moment the door swings shut, “Can you handle this, Geralt? Be honest.”

She hadn’t said a word of his jumpiness and thin skin to the others, not yet. But she might.

He takes inventory. Just as the fangs, the only other part of him to come in this quick, the full weight of the pain is fading quicker than any natural wound, and settling under his skin as the soreness after a tough fight or tougher bout of training (or more likely, sparring). The unusual level of sensitivity though, the one that has him snapping at Jaskier and Yennefer as if no more than a thief in the night—that lingers. The girl, however, asleep deeply (though not peacefully, for her restless and pained twisting), doesn’t seem to trigger it. Perhaps it’s because of necessity, or perhaps its her clothes, strangely soft against his fur. Not abrasive like the stone underfoot, nor is it grasping and expectant.

The word dawns on him, a flash of memory parroted by older witchers on the Path from before the school’s fall. Overstimulation. A facet of their heightened senses, and not anything he’s felt in full force since the months after his Trials. He looks at Yennefer, meeting her sightless gaze and pushing the memory toward her like a neatly-wrapped package.

Message received, Yennefer relaxes, a crease between her brows falling away and shoulders un-hunched. “Unfortunate, but not unmanageable,” she says de soto, as if the girl might wake for anything less than an avalanche at this point. Geralt sees the minute twitch behind shut eyes, both hears and feels the her steady heartbeat. Dreams have hold of her, and if Jaskier didn’t wake her carrying her within the castle then Yennefer certainly wouldn’t. She treats the child with unassuming tenderness, neither with her usual brashness and bravado nor cool politeness that he glimpsed in the first week as she regained her strength and vied to salvage her walls.

He can’t tell if Yennefer hears the half-question in his assessment, or if she indulges in his thoughts at all.

Minutes later, she presses the subject. “You seem more comfortable now. What agitated you this morning? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in such a state.”

It’s the stonework underfoot—he hadn’t realized it until she had asked directly, but the tile against the pad of his paw, each step he takes ricochets in his head. Cold, the cold that’s turning him. Bare feet, without any resources. On all fours, the state of him so close to bestial. The scrape of the leathery soles against the stone, an affront to his already overburdened senses. The pain of the steps like a lightning rod for pain, pooling the aches into his limbs, the only thing left of his he can use and rely on.

“Oh,” is her soft and only response. The child stirs in her arms, trying to twist free. Asleep yet, but dreams taking a turn perhaps. Yennefer pets her hair and picks out the plant litter. The agitation of the dream seems to fade, but she shivers now, little ripples through her body belaying her raising body temperature. Yennefer tacks on, “If there’s a needle and thread anywhere, Triss could stitch something up for you. Socks, or booties like those city dogs.

That sounds nice.

Yennefer nods. “I’ll pass it along, then. Is there anything else? I know I said you scared Jaskier, but… You had us all worried, Geralt.”

He could smell it on them as clear as day. He knew. He just… couldn’t process it at the time.

“Just tell us what you need next time, alright? None of us want it to happen again, if it’s preventable. Socks, and alerting me to your disposition before you feel so inclined to nip and growl and not use your words.”

Geralt would be the first to admit words are a far cry from his strong suit.

Yennefer snorts. “You’re telling me. You know, it’s not often I come across such a visceral mind. You think in scents and sensation as often as complete words, and more often than complete sentences.” She must notice the twisting in his chest at that, the uncertainty at being called out as so different from the world, because she continues, “It’s no bad thing, Geralt. Quite refreshing, actually. The way you perceive the world… It’s beautiful, and certainly no hardship to partake in your thoughts—well, aside from the aftereffects of the transformation. Were they all this bad?”

Waking up after Stregobor razed the western half of the courtyard. The fangs growing in over breakfast. The blizzard.

The gradual growth of his horns, ears, and fur in the absence of anyone at all. The way that—up until the blizzard and his persistence to keep his fingers from locking closer together—his paws had not hurt at all, just a curios tug when he stretched them beyond their newfound limits, especially when playing the lute.

“So only when it’s a rapid change,” Yennefer says. “Small mercies, if only the weather had kept longer.”

Delaying the inevitable.

“Geralt.” Yennefer’s voice turns hard, and louder than she’s spoken in the presence of the girl yet. A metallic tang to the air like brass, determination overtaking her usual lilac and gooseberry scent. “You can believe me, or you can not, but I swear that Tissaia is a unquestionably talented and capable enchantress. And beyond that, I requested medical supplies for myself and Triss. By the time she gets here and we come up with a plan, all three of us will be ready to face Stregobor down on your behalf. Whatever it takes. We owe you, and moreover Triss and I care about your well-being. Tell me—show me, why is that so hard for you to believe?”

Eighty years on the Path flash before his eyes. How many times did he see promises broken, his kind spurned? How many times did people die because they refused to trust a witcher? Then, there are the nights he goes hungry because they’ll take a witcher’s custom but not pay him for it, would rather drive him out of town by spear or stone than to pay the price for keeping their town safe, their families alive.

No, people are unreliable, and cruel to witchers, quicker to show a stray mutt good for nothing more than harboring fleas kindness than him, the viper-eyed hellraiser.

He shakes off the echo of stones pelting him as he slips into the forest, fleeing on Roach as soon as he reaches her. He hopes she’s well, that she ran before Stregobor thought to touch her, that either a new rider or the wilds are providing for her. She’s never wavered, loyal to the last—unlike all others but his fellow wolf.

And even them he’s never been allowed to rely on—the Path must be walked alone. In winter, they decompress and share in each other’s lives in the only ways they know how, swapping stories and training, each lending a hand in the upkeep of the castle. Outside Kaer Morhen’s walls, beyond the reach of the Blue Mountains—he can expect no help from his brothers, and they from him. They stake out their routes to never cross paths, for the Path provides enough for a single witcher alone and no more.

Yennefer lets him sift through memories in patient silence. The child seems more comfortable than ever, warmed beyond the point of shivering because she is cold or not shivering because she is too cold. Her heartbeat is sedate, and eyes relaxed. She may wake soon.

Do you see, he thinks, for I cannot.

If his hundred years of life have taught him anything, it’s to rely on himself and his skills alone. It would not do to become reliant on another, only to slow for lack of need of his skill. A slow witcher is a dead witcher.

Their investment in his person is an irregularity that will eventually be corrected when his inhumanity becomes too big a problem to surmount. He has nothing more to give them, not now.

“We don’t expect you to give us anything, Geralt. And… I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. It looks like you found the worst sort of scum while on the Path. You don’t deserve that.”

Salty sorrow. It doesn’t suit her, a harsh contrast to the scents of magic she exudes. The lilac and gooseberry-tinged air around her as she wields her magic form a heady concert, soothing sweet and lively sour, domineering her sphere of influence, saturating the air with the fresh, sharp aroma.

“That’s perhaps the oddest, most honest compliment I’ve ever received. Thank you, I think.”

Geralt had been making an observation rather than offering a compliment, but that makes it all the more honest, he supposes.

“I’ll tell you what,” she says, still under her breath. “How about a challenge? Trust me, trust us for the next two weeks. If we fail to revert your transformation and break the curse before then, then—”

She pushes the thoughts into his head, lets him examine them every which-way. Feel the sincerity of her offer. _If I fail, I will teleport you and your brothers whenever you ask until next winter. I do so hate being a glorified chauffeur, so know that I speak truly when I say we can put an end to this quickly._ Fresh cut grass, wheat fields and wilds. The grain of truth, a visceral scent in the air.

Geralt believes that she believes it, and with the words in his head, it’s hard to keep hold of the realism he clings onto, like grasping a live fish in bare hands.

There goes that traitorous hope again, a spark without kindling that lives in his chest. He wants—

He knows Yennefer is in his head, but he flicks away his concern as quick as it came. She’s already privy to the worst parts of him, the weakest, even without her mental insight.

And he wants to believe in her, in Jaskier. To take hold of their faith and make it his own. It’s an ache in him, a longing that won’t go away. A permanent affliction that won’t turn around and fade with a good night’s sleep, not like training and transformations. He wants to see spring with his own eyes, smell the bloom of newfound life. The summer sun on his back and he rides with Roach across empty foothills and scantly-trod valleys, cresting from one village to the next in a warmth and peace he only knows in faint brush-strokes. Fall, plentiful crops and more generous hands and bountiful market stalls. His last pass before Kaer Morhen—they stock up on supplies at the foot of the mountain, but there are always one or two indulgences, hot pastries and ripe berries.

He lives for those moments. He does not live to remove the world of the man-hungry creatures that stalk it. Vesemir would scold him, tell him to reassess before life and death force his hand, but it has been and always will be the moments where time and the very world itself seem to stop, where the air is the cleanest and he can breathe deep and nothing and nobody can touch him, where he and Roach and his brothers are safe and well-fed.

All the stones of the peasants would never matter again if he knew his brothers would always be there to welcome him home, that they would never want for food again, that Roach never had to risk injury or death on his behalf and could live out her days with light travel, only laden with apples and oats and the freshest of hay for dinner.

He wants them to be taken care of when he’s gone. There are so few of them left, and they look after their own.

Guess he’ll just have to trust in Yennefer’s words and survive, then.

He looks toward the mage, who wears an expression of such inexplicable fondness he at first mistakes it as directed toward the child in her arms—but, no. “That’s the spirit,” she tells him, and it’s him she’s directed that soft gaze to, head tilted and eyes almost meeting his. “Two weeks.”

Two weeks. He can do that.

Yennefer reaches out and places a hand on his neck. It doesn’t hurt.


	11. Interlude: And you, you light a candle. / And I make sure the bairns are fed.

Under the cover of darkness, Roach chews her way through a bucket of oats. Scorpion is gracious enough—or knows her well enough—not to get in her way as she monopolizes the feed. Her saddle came off just as soon as they stopped, Eskel rubbing against her bloodied fur, checking for injuries. All Renfri’s, the silly wolf. She nudges his chest in turn (avoiding the hedgehog-like spikes at his shoulder), and gratitude and relief intermingle before it’s Renfri’s turn to be tended to. An arrow to the shoulder. Roach doesn’t watch.

Scorpion takes two steps closer. She huffs into the oats, then relinquishes them to him. Only because she wants water now, not because she’s being nice. She drinks the water down to the bottom of the bucket just to make sure he knows that.

Eskel notices quicker than she gave him credit for, extracting himself from Renfri’s tending to refill their water. She nips his sleeve in passing for undermining her plans so soon, but the affectionate nose pat she gets in return makes up for it.

With Scorpion at the oats and Eskel departed, she turns her attention to Renfri. She’s upright. Bloodied still, from where the arrow struck, but alive. Bandaged and after-battle smells clinging to her, strong enough to burn her nose if she were to get too close.

“I think you saved my life,” she says in Roach’s direction. Her knees are pulled to her chest, wounded arm limp at her side and the other dangling towards the fire.

Roach snorts. She knows when she’s being talked to, and Renfri is not a bad rider to bear, no matter how much she wants to resent her for being not-Geralt.

“No need to sound so smug about it.” She levels a glare at Roach.

With her on the ground curled in on herself, Roach two heads above her, she seems smaller. Quieter than she knows the human to be. Loud and brash and unashamed. Clever, like her wolves, even if she does not fight the same fights they do.

“Guess I owe you one.”

“That you do,” Eskel says, setting their water down between Scorpion and herself.

“I was talking to the horse, not you, asshole.”

“I don’t burn down a forest for just anyone, you know.”

“Yes, and I’m sure that was all for me and had nothing to do with whose horse I was on.”

“We’re in agreement, then. In this together for Roach’s sake?” Amusement laces his voice.

Roach whinnies at her name, and Eskel walks over to her, rubs her from forehead to nose. It feels nice, and even better when he takes a brush to her neck. She gives a toss of her mane and settles in for a—with any hope—thorough brush-down. Flecks of blood and dust and loose hairs fall away as Eskel talks.

“So Blaviken’s resident mage had a job for Geralt. Any idea what it might be?”

“A pretty good idea. Promise you won’t kill me, and I might tell you.”

“You kept Roach alive. You get one free pass.”

“Mm, so generous. Stregobor wants me dead. I was born under a black sun, and he seems to think I’ll be the world’s doom. He’s made an enemy of me, and I of him. I had plans to attack, but he swept my men out from under me. Same time Geralt disappeared, best I can tell.”

There’s a long silence. Eskel’s movements are more forced than fluid, and Roach shakes herself, depositing of some of the clinging debris to the ground but mostly to get Eskel’s attention. He murmurs an apology to her, low, and pats her neck. His knuckles drag against his scar before returning to tending her coat.

“Where does that leave Geralt? He wouldn’t have killed you, so why didn’t he come back for Roach?”

“Don’t know. Kid didn’t know either, and after that I had to run.”

“What do you say we ask around? See if the other sorcerers know anything?”

“And why would I put my neck on the block for a witcher sent to kill me? Stregobor isn’t the only sorcerer who’d see me dissected.”

“Geralt would never; trust me. You owe Roach, don’t you?”

Roach flicks an ear at the sound of her name, looks to Renfri who’s prodding the fire with a stick, refusing to look her way. Roach huffs, and Eskel chuckles behind her.

“Fine. I’ll help,” Renfri says, tossing the stick into the fire, “on the condition that you protect me from any other attacks. From anyone.”

“My blade is yours. Any other enemies I should know about?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“The we set out at first light. Whatever happened, it can’t be good if he left Roach behind.”

“It can’t be good if Stregobor is involved, period.”

Scorpion stamps impatiently beside her. Their wolf is nervous, and it’s the stallion’s turn to be brushed anyway. Roach takes the opportunity to steal the oats bucket back. Recompense for giving Eskel’s deft hands up.


	12. And on the creature scratches, it doesn’t know how to get out (let me out)

Ciri wakes up floating on a cloud. Her eyes flicker open, still half asleep, and she sees waves of white, but too warm to be snow. She fell asleep in an old, scratchy stall. Did she die?

She opens her eyes, and a scream catches in her throat. A demon with golden eyes and goat-like horns pins her legs down.

“You’re awake, child?” Louder, “Jaskier, Triss!”

Behind her, the voice—

She twists instinctively, but stops partway to keep her eyes on the demon, who watches demurely.

“That would be Geralt, little one. He likely saved your life, with all that fur of his.”

“Ah, but none of the credit to me, Yennefer? You wound me.” A man emerges, and this time she looks away from the demon—Geralt—to see a mousy haired man in a doublet as bright as a peacock’s fan. He walks funny, what Grandmother would call prancing and Eist would call good showmanship, and bows as he presents a small cut of meat and a warm, steaming drink in an earthenware cup. He doesn’t give them to her, but sets them on the table a short distance away, and pats the back of the chair. “Food and drink for the lady, and Jaskier at your service. I found you in our stable this morning after a truly atrocious blizzard. You were chilled to the bone, so much so we had to call out our best defense against the cold, as it were—” He gestures at Geralt with a grin and a wink. “Please don’t fret, he’s as friendly as a house cat.” Jaskier pats at his thigh, and the demon raises up off her lower body with delicacy, like a horse being asked to weave cones, feet raising a bit too high with each step until it properly extracts himself.

Geralt sits next to Jaskier. His head reaches the man’s torso, and his horns curl an inch or two above that, but Jaskier strokes the top of his head like there isn’t some—some demonic wolf _thing_ in their midst. She gulps and looks away, searching for anything else to focus on than those strange, slit-gold eyes.

“You should eat, dear.” The woman—Yennefer—still rests behind her, close enough to touch though she’s retracted her hold. Raven locks, purple eyes, and a kind if prim face—she wouldn’t be out of place sitting at court.

Another woman with no hair at all leans down and tugs Yennefer to her feet. They embrace and whisper to each other, and their words are lost to Ciri as Jaskier spins her around and guides her to her food. She acquiesces, if only because hunger gnaws at her belly. She hasn’t eaten well in weeks. Also, the goat-wolf-thing has moved away from the table, partially hidden from sight with Yennefer and the other woman standing between her and it.

Jaskier sits across from her as she tugs off her gloves and eats. “I’m Jaskier—bard, poet, and top of my class at Oxenfurt,” he says with a wink. “Our wolfy friend over there is a witcher cursed in the line of duty, Geralt.” A witcher? Normally they would be the ones to _break_ curses… “And the lovely women you see before you are Yennefer of Vengerberg and Triss Merigold, both mages of the highest caliber. Who might you be, kidlet? You must be a long way from home to have breached our castle walls.”

“Fiona,” Ciri says automatically. The lie grows easier on her tongue with every pass. “My parents—they’re dead, and I…” Her eyes well with tears. It isn’t a lie, per say, but letting the adults fill in their own truths tends to work out better than any tale she’s managed to spin yet. The tears, well, she’s always on the cusp these days, exhausted and terrified of what might be lurking in the forest or the next town over. Tired and hungry. She misses Grandmother and Eist, misses Cintra…

The tears come faster. She hiccups and grabs her tea.

Jaskier, when she glances up, is looking over her head, back toward the mages. She turns, and they straighten up and plaster on a pleasant smile. Artificial. Hiding something already.

She can’t stay here.

But there’s snow half as deep as she is tall outside, and she needs them for now. She finishes her last bite of meat and looks around, the picture of innocence.

Jaskier takes the hint. “Are you still hungry? I could make some more if you’d like, no trouble at all.”

“Yes, please,” she says with a courtly smile.

The taller of the two women, Triss, puts a hand on her shoulder. “After you’ve had your fill, we can prepare a bath for you.”

“Thank you.”

“What brought you this far north, Fiona?” Triss takes a seat adjacent, angling toward Ciri.

“The war.” The shorter her answers, the fewer lies she can be caught tangled in. She bites her lip to keep herself from elaborating.

“With Nilfgaard?”

She gives a polite hum. She’d rather eat and bathe and not answer questions, but questions are always the price exacted of her.

Triss looks to Yennefer, who’s staring at the back of Ciri’s head with an unnerving, blank expression. At Triss’s gaze, she angles her head toward Triss. A moment of silent communication, then Yennefer nods. Triss continues the conversation as if there was never a pause at all. “Yenna and I, we were at Sodden Hill.”

Ciri doesn’t quite contain her gasp. “I heard—what of it? Did Nilfgaard…?”

Triss smiles, reassuring. “No, Fiona, not at all. We won. They won’t be taking the north any time soon. Our side—the Brotherhood—had deep losses, but so did they.”

Ciri would love to say something—anything at all, to thank the woman for the news, but she snaps to attention at the sound of claws tapping against stone.

The demon wolf freezes under her stare.

Triss sighs and pushes her chair back. “Geralt, come here, please.”

Ciri’s breaths turn frantic. Surely they wouldn’t—

“I won't have the two of you tiptoeing around each other. Geralt, sit.”

The demon wolf sits.

“Shake.” Triss holds out a hand.

The wolf snorts but complies. His paw is as big as Triss’s hand.

“Good boy. Hmm… Chase your tail?”

“Oh,” Yennefer says, “now that I would love to see.”

Geralt growls at Triss, but lazily. His mouth parts, revealing twin rows of fangs, but his lip doesn’t curl and nor does he change his posture off his poised sit. Ciri has no idea what to make of the transaction. Cursed… A cursed witcher in the body of a demon in wolf skin and the intelligence of a human. What indeed?

“Maybe some other time, dear.” Triss sounds indulgent. “Come on, Geralt, a bit of silliness won’t kill you.”

“I don’t know, it seems there’s a good possibility of it in his case. What do you think, Geralt? Would you rather dance with me? Here,” she says holds her hands out. “Up you go.”

The wolf snorts and raises up on hind legs with more awkwardness than Ciri thought such a great beast could express. He teeters then places one hulking paw on Yennefer’s shoulder, the other on her arm. The dance around—one step forward, one step back—for several paces before Geralt overbalances.

Yennefer almost goes down with him, heaving with the weight of the wolf. “The devil, Geralt? Has nobody taught you to dance?” She dusts herself off. “Oh, I suppose all that monster hunting is a full-time job. But not once? You’re a hundred for Melitele’s sake. Once you’re upright, I really must teach you. I’d be unbecoming if you ever found yourself—Jaskier!” she cries.

“Yes, dear?” Jaskier is en-route from kitchen to Ciri with more meat heaped on a platter. It’s charred on the edges, but it’s more—and better—than she’s had in past weeks and tugs the plate closer with a hint of glee. Food! As much as she wants!

“Did you know Geralt has never danced?” A pause, and then— “No, what we did just now does _not_ count. You were as gangly as a fawn and remained upright for all of ten seconds.”

Jaskier _tsks_ and kneels at Geralt’s side. The wolf towers over him, but leans into his space, hunching and huddling nearer. Jaskier slings an arm around him as if old friends reuniting and kisses the wolf’s cheek, of all things.

Out of all the places she’s stayed, never has she encountered anyone or anything so weird as this.

“Your food, Fiona?” Triss smiles from her side, and Ciri realizes she’s twisted around staring at the duo rather than eating.

Right, food. And then a bath. She could probably tolerate a lot more strangeness than this if it means a hot bath and three meals a day.

\---

Triss guides Fiona out of the room, their endless bowl of water in tow. Geralt figures—or at least hopes—she has her own way of heating the water without casting an open flame. Her scent takes a rotten turn whenever there’s fire around, and though she manages it well, Geralt would spare her the memory if he could. But there is no casting a sign without shaping his hand to direct its magic, without a voice to release it.

Jaskier stands and stretches. Geralt sits up straighter. Jaskier takes the hint—his hand returning to grazing along his scalp in soothing, light scratches, combing through his fur and massaging what he can of the skin beneath, and Geralt leans into his side, scenting his reward immediately: savory honeyed joy.

Yennefer keeps her eyes glued to the door until the duo are well out of sight, then turns to them with coiled excitement like sugar on his tongue. “That,” she proclaims, “is the princess of Cintra!”

Princess? Cintra?

“Yennefer, my most esteemed friend, you may have skipped a few steps. Pray tell?” Jaskier glances down, but Geralt is unreactive, frozen under him with the implications.

“In speaking with Geralt, I open my mind to thoughts—all thoughts. While I don't make a point of rooting through yours, bard, they are exposed to me, should I like. The same held true for our visitor, and she was quite expressive in calling her own lies out. Her grandmother is Calanthe, queen of Cintra until—late.”

“I played for her once,” Jaskier says, a touch dazed, under his breath. “And this—that makes this Pavetta’s daughter?”

“Indeed.”

Indeed, Pavetta’s only child.

 _Here_. With _him_. All the way up in Kovir.

Destiny sure has a way about her.

Fuck.

“Geralt? Think clearly for me, wolf, your thoughts are getting jumbled.”

The scene: Mousesack inviting him to Cintra for a Pavetta’s coming of age. Duny’s curse, proposal, and the subsequent fallout. Claiming the Law of Surprise.

“Ah,” Yennefer says, as eloquent as ever. “The princess of Cintra, and Geralt’s child surprise.”

Jaskier gapes. “The princess? Geralt, what—no, never mind, I shall have my story later. The question _now_ is where do we go from here? Triss did a marvelous job at redirecting her from Geralt’s appearance, but—Geralt, did she smell of fear to you, at the end?

Worry. Confusion. A tinge of elation while she had food in front of her. But the rot gave way to acerbic, sharp tones that belayed her unease rather than fearing him outright, which is more than he could have hoped. Triss and Yennefer really did well with her.

Still not chasing his tail. Not for the girl, not for anyone. He narrows his gaze toward Yennefer, daring her to say otherwise.

“No fear, then. That’s good. And Geralt, you know I tease. Your mind is still your own, and I would never ask you to behave as anything other than yourself unless the need is as great as to risk our lives.” She kneels carefully, a bit off center and putting Geralt two heads above her. “Your situation is troublesome as it is, and I have no desire to add to the degradation. Thank you for dancing with me.”

Thought it wasn’t dancing? But it was close enough, and this—this is Yennefer apologizing, in her own way. He would do as many tricks as need be if it means keeping the child—his surprise child—from running in terror from the one inhabited spot for miles, her only shelter in this influx of cold and brewing storms.

He shuffles forward and nocks his head over her shoulder. Her arms encircle him, her breath warm at his neck even through the fur, and Geralt tilts his head, pressing his cheek to her back. If they both pretend, it could be a wonderful hug. Instead, it’s clumsy and boney and awkward, but the sentiment is there on both sides, he thinks.

“I’m not sure the world deserves you, Geralt. I may have to keep you all to myself.” Yennefer draws back, trailing a hand across his fur as she goes. Once at his snout, she leans in and presses a kiss on his muzzle, between his eyes, to his forehead.

The contact sends his mind sprawling, blank confusion followed by a degree longing he can’t quite suppress. He shivers, and his tail thwips against the ground as he tries to shake the sensation himself.

“You’re allowed to want, you know,” Yennefer says, as soft-spoken now as she had been with the child in her arms. As gently as she speaks to Triss.

Jaskier kneels beside him, besides Yennefer. He runs a hand across his flank, settling at his lower back, and the weight of it grounds him. Yennefer’s hands ghost across his face before cradling him by the base of his horns. His ear twitches and flicks at the oddness of it—even Jaskier had yet to touch him here—but it’s not unpleasant.

“Do you? Want us, that is?” Jaskier smells of roses and honey, and his voice all but drips with the latter, voice low and sweet.

The combination of hands on him and their words, words he thought he wasn’t allowed to have, didn’t think he would live to hear directed his way—it’s a flood with heat cascading through him like the easing into a hot spring, a yearning so bone-deep he hadn’t realized there was anything of its ilk left in him. Not—not after the Trials. Trails to remove him of this wanting, distracting chip in his armor and bake steel into his very foundations.

“Oh, he _wants_ , Jaskier—trust me. But he does not think he can _have_. Shall we prove to him otherwise?”

“I’d love nothing more.” Jaskier beams at Yennefer so brilliantly that Geralt focuses on the image to pass to Yennefer. Disorienting, to look through another’s eyes so directly, but worth it he hopes. “Though, might I ask—Triss?”

“Is well aware of my fascination, and sends along her seal of approval. Says you’re much better than the last man I toyed with, though I’m not sure in that particular instance if she meant Geralt or you, bard.”

Jaskier huffs and pats Geralt’s side amicably. “Ah, well, I maintain she has good taste no matter which of us she dotes on.”

“Certainly. I am her primary partner, after all.” There’s a certain smugness in her tone, but her expression is playful, a sly grin and challenging tilt of the head.

Awe seeps through him like sand through an hourglass the longer they sit here, Jaskier and Yennefer on the ground on either side of him talking about love and partners as if he has any presence in these conversations. As if he could be like anyone else, something worth doting on. The mantras of past trainers slips through his head like water in a sieve, falling away in the heady knowledge that these people see him for what he is and still want him back.

Yennefer kisses him on his cheek for that. “You’re learning. Good.”

“Is he now?” Jaskier loops a hand under Yennefer’s arm, runs it across her wrist. “He deserves a reward, don’t you think? Anything you’d like, now, Geralt. Get creative with it.”

Yennefer turns to Jaskier at the onset of the contact, plucks one hand away from threading with his fur and corrals his hand to intertwine them together. Her other hand drops to Geralt’s paw, holding it as best she can without Geralt lifting it.

A creative reward. His thoughts run murky until one flash of inspiration—or not even that, but a whim, an unnecessary complication, but—

“You’d like me to sleep in your bed tonight? Is that right?”

Jaskier makes an approving sound. “Ooh, and the bed is just big enough too. Geralt might be something of a space heater; I hope you don’t overheat easily.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage. I’ll talk to Triss—maybe the princess will want to sleep with her tonight anyway. Bit skittish, that one, but Triss is a steady hand and warm touch.” She speaks with warm, coppery pride.

“What are we doing with her, come to it? She needs to know that we know, and we’ll have to see what she knows of her Surprise status too. Clearly Geralt’s name means little to her, for I’ve already mention it in concert with being a witcher to no avail.”

“Tell her over dinner, I suppose, if Triss doesn’t beat us to it.”

“She already knows—oh, but of course, you are both mages, after all, and your telepathy runs in both directions. Hmm.”

If Triss tells her first, she may have time to acclimate to the notion. If Geralt is not with her when she’s told, they may not have time to do damage control, if all she remembers of him is his bestial form and not the intelligence he has left to him.

All he knows is he would much prefer to avoid the fear-scent of an abandoned, earth and rain-claimed carcasses.

“I’ll have Triss tell her,” Yennefer murmurs into his fur. Another kiss to his cheek.

Each touch whisks something away like the draining of a wound. There’s a touch of pain, but not that of the transformation. Instead it aches, eats at him as something so unfamiliar as to confuse his body as much as his mind craves it, needs the friendly touch of another on his skin.

They’re carving the loneliness out of him, one touch at a time. Every intermingled breath, every stroke of skin and fur and brush of minds and meeting of eyes.

Jaskier, partially disentangled from Yennefer and himself, makes an unhappy noise under his breath while looking outside. “I—as much as I’d love to stay here with you both, I ought to go. Triss and I had plans for the day, and they can’t wait, surprise child or no.”

Yennefer hums. “Would it go faster with two?”

“Ah, yes?”

“If you trust me, bard—”

“It’s Jaskier, please. I’ve already seen you naked, it’s not like we carry much on formalities now, is it?”

“You told me you adverted your eyes,” she says with a glare.

“And I did! I would never go back on my word like that. But it’s not as if I gave you a bubble bath.”

“Wouldn’t mind one,” she says wistfully before snapping back to the topic at hand. “As I was saying. _Jaskier_. If you trust me, then I can use your mind to guide my steps. As long as you’re looking in my direction, I can help you with your gardening. I’ve done it with Triss often enough.”

“The gardening? Or the mind thing?”

“I intended the latter, but both are true enough. Is that acceptable? To you, Jaskier, but you’d also be left alone for some time, Geralt.”

He can meditate at the window. It’s no trouble. For Jaskier’s benefit, he dips his head in a doggish nod.

“I can think of worse things. Invade away, or whatever it is you do.”

“Invade is a bit crude. I’m simply an observer. You paint the picture, and I act off what you give me.”

Jaskier strokes his neck once, cups his cheek. “Don’t have too much fun without us, dear.”

The silence they leave behind is oppressive. His child surprise sits one floor above, and uncertainty brews cold in his gut. He trusts Triss—she’s given her no reason not to—but in this… This is his duty, his responsibility, the consequences of _his_ mistake in taunting the fates. Destiny brought his surprise this far north for _him_. She half-froze for it, and now he can’t even give her this much. A simple explanation out of his hands.

Out of his paws.

Growling his frustrations, he marches to the window which acts as a cracked egg, spilling its contents to floor. The snow is cold underfoot and pinches and tingles miserably, but it’s worth it to see Jaskier wave animatedly, to watch as they unearth plant after plant for his sake.

Geralt shudders to think what might become of him without their help.

\---

Geralt bides his time at the window with only half an eye on the gardening, and the sun rises high then low again before anyone interrupts.

Triss smells of pine and nutmeg ease, sandalwood soap, and a brush of smoke still clinging to her repaired but not replaced dress. He drinks in the scent as he has those from the outdoors, lost in his meditation.

“Ciri sleeps,” she says.

Geralt rouses himself, turns tail to face her. Cocks his head. Will she read his mind as well?

“If it’s okay with you, yes.”

It’s okay, but his chest twinges in a mix of sympathetic concern and guilt. She sleeps long and often, gardens for him, and now speaks for to his surprise child on his behalf and expends her magic for him, pushing herself with nothing he can give in return.

“You’ve done more than enough, Geralt, and I promise you I can handle a little telepathy. Don’t worry about me.”

He’s only being economical.

Triss huffs a little laugh and moves to sit in the nearest chair. Geralt moves closer to her, and she beckons hm within reach, strokes from nape to shoulders on automatic.

“This alright?”

The touches they’ve been giving him, all three of them, lay contrast to the stone underfoot, almost make up for how unbearable the sensation is. Something to focus on, and perhaps, if he’s too honest, the one good thing to come out of the transformation. The touches are nice.

He pushes the notion of it to the forefront of his mind, the real-here-not alone-warm grounding her strokes provide. How it supersedes the chill in the air nipping at his heels.

Triss looks at him with wide brown eyes, a tiny upward twist to the corner of her mouth. “Well. Yenna is right, you do have a beautiful mind.”

Geralt recoils, unsure what to do with such a statement, but he jolts backward rather than to the side and so Triss grips his nape and soothes the skin below with two fingers moving in quick, small circles.

It’s nice. Geralt squints suspiciously.

“Honestly, Geralt. If I’m using this against you, it’s only a little bit. Have you never petted a dog before? It’s just as nice to give as receive.” She lets up momentarily to stretch, slide down the chair with loosened posture and a cottony-languid sigh. Her eyes slip shut, and her hand back to Geralt’s ruff.

He has questions for her—if his child surprise is doing well, and if she’s overworking herself more pointedly, but she seems peaceful. Content. Her natural pine-spice scent fills the room, and if not for clever fingers tangled in his fur he might think her asleep, for how much her heartbeat slows, evens out.

Eventually, her hand does drop away, and Geralt noses it back onto her lap to be more comfortable. She shivers, and he doesn’t stop to question it when he puts his head on her lap, flank pressed to her legs. Her cottony relaxation returns, and it’s even easier to meditate here like this, someone warm and human pressed close, someone who doesn’t shrink away, awake or asleep. Her liquid-warm breaths guide him back to his composed state, too vigilant to doze, too far outside of his own body to be called meditation. But the distance helps him think, away from this unfamiliar body, and Triss helps too. Knowing she’s here and not somewhere experimenting with another brew on Yennefer’s behalf or gardening on his or cooking for—well, all of them.

She works too much.

“You wouldn’t be the first to tell her that,” Yennefer says from behind him.

He barely twitches his head. Triss makes for a comfortable pillow, and nobody in the room dares wake her.

Jaskier settles to the floor beside him without fanfare, him and Triss framing him on either side. He slings an arm across Geralt, parallel to his back, and presses his face into his fur.

Mournful salt and a sour bite of worry. _Yennefer_ , he pries.

“It’s nothing you wouldn’t have guessed already, wolf. The courtyard is looking sparse—that’s all.”

Oh.

Jaskier huffs—a wet, coarse sound—into his side. Yennefer’s shoes tap against the stonework in halting steps, and Geralt looks up to be her eyes. She nods her thanks and she places herself at Triss’s back, a hand on her shoulder.

Her sent is just as sour as Jaskier, though laced with brassy determination. Purple eyes fixate on Triss, sightless still, but Yennefer practically orbits her partner whenever the two share a space. Whether that’s in advent of the current situation or their default state, Geralt cannot guess, but sure enough it’s not but a minute later rose-scented adoration filters through.

Jaskier scratches between his horns, and Geralt tilts his head, leaning into it.

The birds chirp and caw, wind rustles its susurration to the world, and an animal cries in the distance. Their bubble of peace lingers, and sour tones seep to floral as their attention files down to nothing more than the four of them huddled here, comfortable with one another they could have never been had they not exited society so completely. A witcher, a bard, two mages, and a runaway princess. Survivors, all of them.

Yennefer wakes Triss up with a caress, a kiss, and a gentling, “Sorry, love. Your neck will thank me later.”

“Well, _I_ am thanking you now. Done with the gardening, you two?”

“Quite. There wasn’t much left under the snow, I’m afraid. Frostbite and broken stems everywhere.”

Triss nods in understanding. It was, after all, the foregone conclusion considering Geralt’s state.

“And what of the princess?” Yennefer asks.

“Asleep, after the bath. Or so she says. I gave her a lot to think about. She took it well, all things considered. Curious, if apprehensive. A bit mad at you, Yenna, for reading her mind.”

“Well, can’t say I blame the child. Under normal circumstances this should have never happened at all.” Normal. Yennefer with her weakened magic but increased dependence on it, and Geralt’s nonverbal state were, auspiciously, about as far from the norm as one could get. “But it did, and here we are. I won’t apologize for it.”

Triss snorts. “So you say.”

“So I do say! What’s that supposed to mean?” Yennefer’s too fond of Triss to be truly incensed, but she errs toward defensive.

“Only that you have a fondness for the little ones, Yenna. Nothing more.” Triss tugs Yennefer’s hand upwards and plants a kiss on the back. “I’m sure Geralt wouldn’t mind if you dote.”

What does he have to do with it?

“She’s your surprise child,” and “I wouldn’t want to interfere,” ring simultaneous, Triss and Yennefer both catching the thought.

He isn’t sure what Yennefer would be interfering _with_. He has no designs upon the child, no desire to keep her, make a witcher out of a princess.

“You’d be surprised, Geralt,” Triss says, the hand not intertwined with Yennefer’s running adjacent to Jaskier’s, petting his flank in smoothing strokes. “She seemed rather taken with your job description.”

He wouldn’t know what to do with a princess.

“I don’t think you know what to do with your bard, either,” Yennefer says with a wry smile. “Didn’t stop him or you.”

“Whereas I know just what I’d like to do with you, Geralt, so don't mind her. You just wait—I’ll have the masses singing your name, praises, and deeds in no time, sweetling.” He grins and presses a kiss to his cheek, under his eye, sugar-sweet anticipation and honeyed joy rolling off him as Geralt tries to cuddle him back, a nose to the crook of his shoulder and neck.

Geralt remains convinced he’ll be run out of more taverns and inns than ever before, but he had already voiced that concern—before—and Jaskier’s only retort was to say if he’s not agitating some noble or another, he’s not doing his job right regardless.

He firmly believes Geralt’s underdog status will win the crowds over, and who is Geralt to say otherwise? The worst that could happen already has, four wolves left to his school. And Jaskier’s optimism is… endearing, if naive.

Triss and Jaskier mostly, and Yennefer only a little chat over their plans for their gardening projects. Jaskier won’t be venturing far outside the gates in this weather, but there’s some promising looking sorrel sprigs just along the road he could dig up for flavoring. Triss is more concerned with Yennefer’s potions and their dwindling ointment supplies. If her own wounds don’t heal soon (and they won’t without more powerful healing magic than either could hope to produce right now), they’ll need more antibacterials, but until then she recovers nicely. Yennefer, meanwhile, well. Her abrasions have faded to yellows and pinks, but her sight has yet to give way. Neither woman has given up hope, but Yennefer bristles at the brittle subject. Triss claims too many factors exist for her to even hedge a bet on its possible return.

All in all, it’s just another night for them. And more so when Jaskier pulls up a chair and sings, drawing Geralt’s head into his lap and tapping the notes out into thick fur.

“It’s been some time since I performed for royalty. I must be warmed up, you see,” he says with a smile, but if he really meant it he’d fetch his lute from his room.

The songs each carry a hopeful tone and tune. They are either for his or Jaskier’s benefit, or perhaps both at once. There’s a sourness under his scent that he catches now and again, mostly between songs. Worried for Geralt and their dwindling gardens still.

Any day now he might…

“Geralt,” Yennefer snaps off mid-sentence. “You have two mages in your head now. We’ll know. Trust us.”

Triss cups his jaw, lazily scratches his chin. “Wildlife is my specialty, Geralt. I’ve not communed with wolves before, but I’ve talked to enough of the birds and the beasts. If your thought patterns change at all, even in your sleep, Yenna and I will pick up on it within minutes.”

With the added security of Triss tapping into his thoughts, his worries quell. One could go awry, but two is a safeguard.

They won’t let him hurt Jaskier. Nor his child surprise, should she spend any time with him in the coming days. They’ll monitor him, make sure his strange and Other thoughts don’t deviate—

“You think in sensation and visuals much more than the average person,” Yennefer says. “It’s not other, and it’s not a bad thing. Indicative of your profession, I’ll give you that much, but only because your senses are so sharp and you’re trained in observation.”

“Pretty,” Triss says with a wink, almost cooing at him, either complimenting or flirting or both.

Jaskier chuckles. “My, I would like to be a fly on that wall.”

Yennefer hums thoughtfully, but Geralt snorts and shoves at Jaskier’s leg, who smiles and pats him consolingly. “Ah, perhaps not, Yennefer. I’ll take what I’m given, gladly.”

Not never, he revises in his head. Just not this particular day. When Yennefer and Triss approach a full recovery. When he doesn’t fear in the corners of his heart that Jaskier might find him milked dry of song-worthy material and leave him for greener pastures.

Triss makes a wounded noise. “Geralt, dear.”

Corners or not, they’ve picked up on the sentiment, damn it. Yennefer’s hand digs into his flank, teases his stomach with slow, deep strokes that feel too much like pity.

“Never,” she swears. “Call it empathy if you must, but not to anyone outside this room, if you’d be so kind. But not that.”

Jaskier’s agitation grows, left out of the loop. With an inquiring noise from Triss, Geralt allows them to explain with reluctance. He looks away from Jaskier for it, intending for it to stay distant and unfocused, but the ripple of a dull blue cloak catches his eye. His child surprise.

He jumps to his feet, then stiffens, joints locking. Does she want to see him? Should he leave, hide away?

“Geralt?” Jaskier is distressed, voice strained with citrus and salt, but the conversation must wait. To make up for it, Geralt nudges his arm and licks a tiny strip, whines his mirrored distress. (He doesn’t want to hurt Jaskier—he should never be hurt—but he has a hundred years of proof otherwise: everyone leaves. What to trust? In his failures of hopes and dreams, or in reality? Why does being reasonable about it put a knot in his throat, a vice to his heart?)

Jaskier smiles weakly. Stands and kisses the top of his head.

The cold feels more acute once he walks away.

“Sorry,” Triss says, barely needing to bend down to whisper in his ear. “I didn’t hear her wake, and I didn’t mean to pressure you.”

She was only being honest. Jaskier deserves his honesty, he thinks. It’s one of the last things he can give him, even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts.

“Two weeks,” she says. “Remember, dear.” She scratches behind an ear, and he melts into her touch.

At the edge of the room, Jaskier draws the princess into conversation with startling seamlessness. Several song names are thrown around, and Jaskier claps his hands before heading upstairs.

If he plays, then Triss will have to cook. Geralt looks to Triss. Her hair skirts between baby fuzz and nonexistent, and more of her scalp is patchy with fading burns. Nobody could blame her if she would rather abstain from the open flame. Geralt wishes he had his body back if only to save her this decision. Cooking for them was never a hardship. Quite the opposite, really, in that it provided a good outlet for his powers. One he’ll have to suggest as a way to train their signs should he make his way to Kaer Morhen again. But wishing changes nothing, and he can no longer provide for them. It’s up to Triss or Jaskier—and for all Yennefer’s independence, even she will admit to not wanting to chance an open flame.

Though, he recalls, she may be just as scarred by flames as Triss. The bard who carries figs for a meal on the road, the only chef left between them.

The chances of the princess knowing how to handle herself in the kitchen are slim to none, and he wouldn't ask it of her anyway.

The princess who is looking at him very intently from behind Yennefer’s skirts. Caught in the act, she reverts to her conversation with Yennefer, but not before one more sidelong glance at him. She’s either less subtle than she thinks she is or openly curious and hoping to invite Geralt into conversation.

Jaskier returns, lute across his back. Triss’s pine-spice neutrality shifts rosey-fond as Yennefer turns to meet her, leaving his surprise child exposed with Jaskier at her back rather than forming a barrier between her and Geralt. Free from the cling of dirt and days without bathing, she smells of apricot soap and rich curiosity and the saffron and poppy that seems to be her underlying scent. The curiosity wars with lemon-coated nerves.

Steel tickles the air, and she blurts, “You’re my Destiny.”

And Destiny does always find a way, doesn’t it? He steps forward. She’s only a couple inches taller than him, if that, and it’s hard not to meet her eye to eye.

Then, scent unwavering, she throws herself at him, arms slung over his back and her face buried in the ruff of his neck.

This… This is not what he expected. Jaskier makes an encouraging _go on_ motion, and Geralt noses down, ducks his head around her shoulder. A semblance of reciprocation.

She hangs onto him, fingers clamped tight as if to stop him from running away. He probably deserves that. They reconcile a moment longer, her breaths warm and quick against his flank, her heartbeat a hummingbird in flight. With an unsteady huff, she releases him and backs away two steps, Jaskier still at her back. “You can understand me?”

Geralt nods.

“I—They said I needed to find you. That I’d be safe with you. I didn’t know where to go, who I was looking for! Where were you?”

She doesn’t mean here, with the curse. She already knows that. No, its his decade-and-change long absence that she must mean, and Geralt has no answers for her now, not ones with any satisfaction.

He passes the sum of his thoughts to Yennefer, who speaks for him. “When a witcher receives a child surprise, they are taken to the witcher’s school and raised as a witcher themselves. He didn’t want that kind of life for you, Cirilla, even if the way to make new witchers has been lost.”

“You didn’t visit,” she says, quiet and confused. “Grandmother—she said terrible things about you. Eist said you weren’t so bad, but nobody knew you except for the stories they told of that one night.”

Geralt’s shame had kept him away. Shame has dictated his actions for long enough. Though he cannot offer her much... Yennefer says for him, “He’s sorry for that, and would like to make up for it. Whatever you need of him that he can give, it’s yours.”

Cirilla screws up her nose, deep in thought. Steel determination and a twinge of rotten fear. “Teach me. Train me, like you would a witcher.”

But her scent—she’s afraid and seeking vengeance, not equity, and the last thing he wants to do is put a sword in her hands.

Yet, he thinks of Lambert. All pent up rage, but still one of the very best, refining his anger into a weapon as much as silver and steel. Maybe not all is lost here. Vesemir, he’s certain, would know what to do with her, if he sent her along. The three of them would take more than good care of her.

Yennefer disengages from her courtly bearing, straight-backed and remote to the conversation, merely conduit and not participant. It’s impressive, how rapidly she code shifts. She steps into his space, puts a hand between his horns—not stroking, but grounding him all the same.

The touch distracts him from his thoughts long enough to re-center, and oh—she expects him to regain hands and speech, and expects him to think accordingly. Their two weeks are not yet up.

Vesemir would still know best. Not like Geralt ever trained with anyone younger than him by a handful of years, more peers than a relationship between mentor and trainee. He remembers his lessons, but to order them into cohesion—well. He trusts Vesemir’s judgment more than his own on these things. Even if he was only the fencing instructor. They’ll make do, all of them together.

“You have a lot to learn, little one, but he’ll do it,” Yennefer says.

“Isn’t it weird having her in your head?”

For a princess, she doesn't have much in the way of a mental filter. Yennefer’s fingers curl into his fur agreeably, and he thinks she’s concurring with his assessment. Another scratch, nail across scalp.

Yennefer in his head means he’s not alone with his thoughts. Not trapped inside his own mind. And she, too, gets something out of it—his eyes, her mouth. The most miraculous part of the whole procession is that she seems capable of detangling his own thoughts and turning them into words even faster than he is within the confines of his head. Her objectivity serves them both well, and he appreciates the lengths she’s going to for him in translating his muddled, inaccurate words into something palatable for his child surprise.

Yennefer smells of roses and contentment, her natural scent washing over him. It stirs in his gut, the knowledge that he can elicit the same sprawl that she finds with Triss. She’s always lightest with Triss, and she could smile like that more. Honey and roses. Peaceful.

“Geralt and I are quite comfortable with the arrangement, Cirilla. I believe that’s all that needs saying on the matter.”

“Ciri. My name is Ciri—but. Not in front of anyone else, please? It’s important people don’t know who I am… Except you and your friends, I guess,” she says, gesturing at Geralt.

Ciri. His Destiny.

“Well,” Jaskier says with a slightly too loud clap of his hands, “With that out of the way, what do you say to some music, Ciri?”

Sugared excitement; a yes by all accounts.


	13. Interlude: And as you grip me like an animal

Though Geralt’s absence remains sorely missed, Roach can’t help but like the new arrangements in the wake of the conjoinance of her and Scorpion’s riders. With Eskel to guide the party, they move from town to town as Roach is intimately familiar with. People, contract, more people, road. Back, forth.

It’s no bad thing that Renfri is handy with a blade herself, so when a stray drowner creeps too close, Renfri takes them out before she and Scorpion need to choose between getting their hooves dirty and making a run for it. Eskel is happier to take her and Scorpion out on hunts, and so the two of them spend more time grazing than with a roof over their heads—an acceptable trade-off since they’re well beyond the rainy season.

She has to remind Scorpion of his place once and only once, rearing up and nearly pulling her rope off the tree it’s tied to. He doesn’t get pushy with her again, and Roach takes great pleasure in the way he backs off when she zeroes in on a thick patch of grass.

Then—after weeks of contracts, people, and roads—the pattern breaks.

Eskel and Renfri bicker, as they always do, but this time Renfri isn’t taking no for an answer. Roach looks on at the clamor in wary interest—she has her sword drawn, standing at the edge of camp. Eskel has his arms crossed in cool verbal defiance rather than prepared physical defense, and for that alone she relaxes. If Eskel isn’t worried, she won’t worry either.

It seems she should have.

The next thing she knows, the two of them have come to an agreement and leave together for Eskel’s next contract.

The sun crosses the sky, the sorceress descends.

Scorpion sees her first, whinnying and stamping. Roach lifts her head, and the woman strides to the middle of their camp like she owns the place. A blue gown, impractical for anyone but a magic user in the middle of a forest, swishes with every step and carries the scent of peonies and cherries to her nose. Roach sneezes.

Scorpion has a better nose for magic and strains at his rope without faltering, staring her down. The sorceress pays no mind, walking a tight circle and peering around their camp.

Then she kneels to rifle through their belongings, tugging Eskel’s bag of potions and reagents open.

Roach and Scorpion in near-perfect synchronicity rear and tug, snapping their leads off the branches, only ever loosely affixed. Scorpion comes down with a loud whinny of protest. Roach stamps and circles around, forcing the sorceress to turn her back to one of them at any given time.

The sorceress isn’t deterred in the slightest by their affront. She stops her search and draws magic in one hand, a ball of strange, sparking yellow light, angling towards Scorpion. The peony-and-cherry scent magnifies.

Roach barrels forward and tears at the neck of the ridiculous blue dress, shaking her like an unruly kitten at the scruff. The ball of magic shoots off as she falters, and a bough falls several paces away from their campsite entirely. Scorpion startles at the flash and noise and rears back, but uses the momentum to his advantage. Roach sees the descent writ in the curve of his body and backs away gracefully. The sorceress does not.

Scorpion’s hoof comes down with more than enough force to knock her out. Roach hopes, though only fractionally, their riders return before she bleeds out. Head wounds do bleed an awful lot. It would be a shame for something to happen before they got their answers.


	14. As we lie here in our bed

Jaskier is a blessing none of them deserve.

Geralt decides this unanimously as he gallivants through the dining hall, leaves them to cook dinner on the very pleasant note of their favorite songs and poems they’ve heard through the years—which he’s certain the bard must loathe to leave during, but it means the conversation doesn’t wane one minute until his return—then settles Ciri down with quieter songs until she’s yawning and willing to be led off to bed.

All this with a sword hanging over their heads that Geralt put there. It’s not that he expects Jaskier, in all of his adoration and good graces, to intentionally run off the second Geralt’s wellspring of songs run dry. But he’s a free spirit, the likes of which Geralt wouldn’t dream of tying down. Eventually, he’ll grow bored. Geralt is simply… bracing for impact. He already cares much more than he should. It’s only prudent to guard against the worst of the fallout.

But now Jaskier knows he’s thinking it. His heart hurts. It’s only psychological, but it _hurts_ and Geralt doesn’t know how to move on from here.

Triss puts Ciri to bed. Geralt isn’t sure if he’s to expect her return this evening or not.

Jaskier leads them to his room with a proffered elbow to Yennefer, as if escorting her to a ball. She takes it with good grace, though he suspects she’s been making full use of their consent to be her eyes since the moment they each agreed. She moves with more confidence than before, more surety in her steps and fewer hesitant footfalls. Geralt follows behind, eyes on the ground a few feet in front of her, just in case.

Jaskier, in the sprawling emptiness of the castle, chose the largest bedroom at the end of the hall for himself. The bed is intended for two and should reasonably hold a third, though it’s pushed up against the wall to make space for the overlarge desk across from it, and they’ll wake each other getting up. Geralt’s been sleeping on the outside, and Jaskier near to the wall. He has yet to wake up before him, so their arrangement stands. Where Yennefer slots in he doesn’t know.

Jaskier is quick to dress down, shucking his doublet and untucking his shirt. The doublet is carefully arranged across the back of the desk chair, his prerogative against wrinkles.

Geralt sits at the foot of the bed. Yennefer tosses her shoes off carelessly, landing beside him with twin clunks, and backs herself against the wall. She sits upright with her knees tucked under, and taps the space in front of her expectantly—the same spot for him as always, though she’s taking up Jaskier’s usual legroom. But they aren’t sleeping yet, and Geralt acquiesces, stationing himself perpendicular and facing the front of the bed. Where the stone was abrasive, the bed is cushioned. The absence of the chill underfoot makes Geralt shiver.

Jaskier, now free of shoes and jacket, climbs around Geralt to take up his space by wall and pillow. He sighs, part relief and part stress. He stretches his legs out, and Geralt rests his chin on them, leaning into what warmth he can find through his soft pants.

“Here, Geralt,” Jaskier says and angles himself, a bit away from Yennefer, but better for the two of them to share space.

His head ends up on Jaskier’s lap, warmer yet. The scent of him is so strong in his nose, he basks in it even while disparaging himself for inducing the off-kilter sourness marring the herbal honeyed tones he’s come to take comfort in.

“What do we want to talk about first? You breaking your promise, or how you feel about Jaskier?”

But it’s one and the same, isn’t it? He didn’t do as Yennefer asked, didn’t trust in them, and now he’s hurt Jaskier.

“Mm, Jaskier first, shall we say?”

“Can I, uhh—Geralt,” Jaskier tries. “Triss said you thought I’d leave you, once my songs are done. First, I would like to point out, once you are upright,” he nods at Yennefer, “then you can continue your witchering. New stories and adventures to be had! But more important is you, Geralt. You could grow legs tomorrow and retire the next day and I would still want to spend time with you.” His hand settles at the back of his head and tension sinks out of Geralt. “It’s okay that you don’t trust me right now. Your stories—I’ve always kept an ear open for any sort of sidekick—it would only be appropriate in an adventure, after all. But you’ve never had anyone, have you?”

He has Vesemir, Eskel, and Lambert for as long as they each survive the Path, for as many winters as they choose to spend in charnel halls. But the Path itself is walked alone.

The silence is answer enough for Jaskier. “You’ve been alone for a hundred years, and I’ve not been alive for quite half of that—”

Yennefer makes an incredulous noise beside him. “You’re not a day over twenty.”

“That would be the elvish blood, my dear. I’m not the only one in the family to sleep around.”

Yennefer opens her mouth once, twice. Shuts it. Jaskier takes her hand, switches the hand running through his fur.

“You too?” she asks, but it’s more a confession. Shame the scent of ashes mingles with her lost expression.

Jaskier smiles, sorrow-tinged but reassuring.

Geralt pushes the solidifying, warm comfort of their arrangement to the forefront of his mind. He lingers on each touch, and Yennefer reaches out, a hand on his back. That, too, he forces himself to be present for—no judgment or emotional response to cloud his mind, just the simplicity of the cool air contrasting the warm bodies beside him. Their scents intermingled, their heats beating steady. The quiet shuffle of their breaths, and the rise and fall of his own chest. The hum and buzz of distant bugs, faint through the window. A scrape between cloth and skin as Jaskier moves, trying to embrace both his companions at once. Wing beats of a bird rising, the stretch of half-silence as it glides and the wind shakes the trees, a streamlined whistle across the land.

He bundles this together, branding it for her as something he himself cherishes, clings to. For all his enhanced senses can bring irritation and awareness to things better left unknown, this is what he lives for. The ever-present thrum of life—beast and man and land alike.

There are good things in the world. She is not alone, she can be accepted for who she is. What she is. He would give her this.

“Thank you,” Yennefer says into Jaskier’s shoulder. Her fist tightens around a clump of fur—not painfully. A reminder.

They’re all here for each other—as Geralt is learning, piece by piece.

\---

Jaskier kisses Yennefer’s cheek, tucking a strand of raven hair behind her ear. He tilts his head forward, presses their foreheads together.

She pulls away first, a hitch in her breath as she looks away. Jaskier contents himself with a thumb at her back, hand at her side and doesn’t look for tears. He doesn’t need to look to know she feels the same ostracism he does, as all of the half-breeds.

Just because others don’t tend to notice how well he ages, how few comments his status garners directly, doesn’t mean the offhand remarks about “his” kind of filth hurt any less. He knows, even if they do not. Jaskier’s more open about his heritage than most. Yennefer, he suspects, veers the other direction.

They sit in the dark, seemingly nursing all their wounds at once.

“If you could go anywhere in the world,” he asks, “where would you choose?”

“Oh, it’s never mattered much to me. Wherever Triss goes, or if Tissaia has need of me—that is where I am.”

“I suppose it’s different for you, what with those portals.”

“Not as different as you’d think. They aren’t the easiest things in the world to create.”

“As I said: you with your portals.” Jaskier knows better than to think her as anything less than a force of nature at her height.

Yennefer smiles, pleased with his assessment. Tacks on, “And Geralt would go to Kaer Morhen.”

“Of course,” he echos. It’s his home, his family. No surprise there. “Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind seeing it one day myself.”

Geralt flicks his ear at this, head raising momentarily from Jaskier’s lap, but Yennefer translates nothing over on his behalf.

“Where would you go?” Yennefer turns the question back on him.

“Ah, you see, I once took an extended coalescence along the coast. Beautiful white sands, and the morning mist spanned as far as the eye could see. My only regret is I couldn’t smell a thing the entire time, but can you picture it? A sweeping, opalescent breeze across frothy white seas and arcing waves. I find myself longing for it when in need of respite from the world.”

“Are you in need of one now?”

“Mm, I suppose. Let’s say I was in a bit of a creative fugue before Geralt came along.”

And yep, that kills the mood. Geralt noses his thigh, quite likely apologetically, though with his head turned away and in the cover of night, it’s hard to say.

Yennefer speaks differently when translating for Geralt. Holds herself straighter, speaks with a slower, more intentional cadence. “He’s sorry, and… Part of him wants to trust you. But, hmm.” Yennefer’s voice is her own again. “Are you sure you’re not catastrophizing, Geralt?” A pause. “I know people don’t _stay_ , but surely you’ve known people from towns you’ve visited repeatedly.”

Jaskier can’t say he much likes these half-sided conversations, but Yennefer speaks through them clearly enough for him to get the gist, he thinks.

Yennefer winces, uncomfortable. “Ah. Well, I suppose that is true.” She tilts her head at Jaskier and clarifies. “He’s showing me—people on the Path he’s known, when he was younger. They’re all dead now.” She pauses, straightens. “Attachments, getting involved—it all presents a danger for a witcher on the Path. If he stops training… A slow witcher is a dead witcher,” she intones, then softer: “Who told you that, Geralt? You say it like you’re quoting.” She hums, acknowledging. “Something of a motto for them, to remind them to take every fight as serious as the last.”

Jaskier strokes Geralt in long sweeps, front to back, forehead to shoulders. He’s never felt a canine carrying tension before, but there it is. Between his shoulders, it bleeds out of him with every pass. “I understand, Geralt. Truly, I do.” His white wolf, alone for so long. “What if I issued a similar challenge as Yennefer? Trust, for two weeks. You’re stressed enough as it is, dearest. Trust I won’t run out on you, and then we’ll talk again when the time comes. Hopefully with you verbal.”

“Definitely with him verbal. I’m not teleporting him and his across the continent if I don't have to. And,” she says, hand grazing Geralt’s tail, who looks back at her at the sensation, “he accepts your offer.”

Jaskier smiles. Geralt exudes heat in his lap, possibly warming him from the outside in, and it’s hard to stay mad at anything so pliant and content within his reach. A puddle of witcher, all for him. “You, ah, really think you can break the curse, then?”

“Me personally? As much as I’d love to make that promise, it’s more a game of unraveling the magic and finding where it’s grounded. Not to say I do poorly with such things, but I did learn from the best, and Tissaia would solve a magical puzzle like this for _fun_. The Brotherhood defer to her for curse-breaking and teaching exercises alike. And Triss, well, you’ve seen her.”

Jaskier makes an understanding noise. He _has_ seen, and he wishes she could convince her to take a breather.

“It’s more about the plants than anything, admittedly. She’s positively slovenly when it come to a clean room. But we’ll break it, have no doubt. Dare I point out Stregobor is the _least_ of the Brotherhood. A recluse, and the few innovations he has elected to share with us have been madcap at best.”

“That _is_ comforting, actually. Hmm, are we good, Geralt?” He raises his head, and Jaskier cradles him, searches out golden eyes in the dark. “You don’t feel bad about your disbelief, I don’t feel bad about monetizing your adventures to my heart’s content. A fair trade?”

“You’re hardly going to be monetizing in the next two weeks,” Yennefer points out. Then, “It’s a deal.”

“Oh, no, we’ve had _conversations_ about this, Yen. Several nights of talk! He looks down on my ‘creative liberties,’ as if Oxenfurt doesn’t love detailing how to spin a story off but a single a grain of truth. We’ve compromised, though. Accurate monster information, so there’s no misunderstandings on the road. Creative liberties on the droll decapitations and dismemberment. Blood and guts can only define so many songs, after all.”

“What else could define monster hunting?”

“Heroics and heartbreak, my dear! And the monsters themselves, apparently. I never entertained such a notion before until I looked down after an afternoon of talk and found myself with a notebook page filled on Geralt’s monster lore alone.”

Yennefer snorts. “He wants you to know Siren Song is still his favorite, and if you write more of its ilk then you’ll gain the approval of every witcher on the continent.”

“Really?” Jaskier leans in toward Yennefer, wires crossed in his investment in the topic, then switches his gaze to Geralt, excited and pleading in equal measure. “Somehow, I rather enjoy the thought of that. Which monsters do you think would make for good song material?”

With the more rapid flow of conversation, Jaskier notes both he and Yen are petting Geralt in smaller motions. Little flicks of the wrist and thumb, agitating then soothing fur over and over. Jaskier smooths the fur at Geralt’s neck down and hopes he’s not been a bother.

“You might find bruxa of interest. A type of vampire—Geralt, no, you can tell him yourself later. I am not transcribing everything from your Vampires 101 book verbatim, or whatever sort of log it is you keep.”

“It’s too dark to write by regardless,” Jaskier adds, though he really would like to hear more about these bruxa.

Yennefer makes a frustrated sound. “Here I am, surrounded by bookworms. Where did I go wrong in life?”

Jaskier kisses her cheek. “That, my dear lady, I cannot help you with. Perhaps that is your lot in life, to be surrounded by charming fellows such as ourselves.” He gestures between himself and Geralt, but his hand clips the side of Geralt’s horn. He makes an apologetic noise and scrubs at the base of the horn repentantly, and Geralt huffs and arches into it. There’s a suspicious sound by Yennefer, and he doesn’t want to _assume_ , but it does sound altogether like the thump of a wagging tail.

“I can’t wait to introduce you to Tissaia,” Yennefer says, leaning back and stretching a leg out, hooking it over Geralt’s back. “You’ll either hate each other or love each other. Actually, maybe I shouldn't. I don’t care to know the mischief any of you might find yourselves in when in cahoots.”

“Cahoots, is it now? Oh, you entice me more with each word.” Jaskier plants a kiss on Geralt’s forehead, who’s looking up at him expectantly.

“Keep doing what you were doing, Jaskier. He likes that.”

“Hmm—oh!” He returns to scratching at the base of his horns. “Demanding, aren’t you? Oh, no, it’s not a bad thing, dearest,” he says quickly before Geralt’s ducked head can turn into much more than that. “Let us take care of you.”

“He’d rather be taking care of the two of us—don’t look at me like that, Geralt, I know you weren’t trying to speak, but for as long as we’re agreeing to have a heart-to-heart… Alright, fine. Only what you push my way.”

“Well, you _have_ been taking very good care of us, haven’t you? Allow us our turn. I don’t mind cooking for everyone. Quite nice, actually. It leaves me in control of the spices, and the rest of you have to suffer my tastes.”

Yennefer snorts. “If you call what we have spices, I’m worried what you’d call Triss’s cooking.”

“Oh, potato, po-tah-to, Yen, dear. It’s about the flavor, not the heat.”

“You say that now…”

“Promises, promises,” Jaskier teases. “Have you even really lived if you haven’t partook in Skellige’s fermented goods?” 

“Ack, you’ve _had_ that? Maybe I’m mistaken about you after all. Did someone burn your taste buds off as a child?” Yennefer drops her head into her hands. “No, no,” she bemoans, “not you too, Geralt. By the gods, you people will eat anything!

“Have you had the shark?” Jaskier asks with a conspiratorial tone, dipping his head down, away from Yennefer—not that he was speaking any quieter, but it was fun to tease.

“He _has_ , and now I’m having the unfortunate secondhand experience of knowing what it’s like to eat it.”

“It’s good though, isn’t it?” They certainly know their foods in Skellige. Not anything he’s used to, but good provided you don’t look too closely at what it is you’re eating.

“It is, and I hate it,” Yennefer bites back.

Jaskier chuckles. It’s easy to relax here. As easy as on the coast. “Do you think, well, that is—” Things _are_ easy. Would he be asking too much of them, assuming too much?

“I’ve never heard you so hesitant, bard. Spit it out.” While her words are caustic, her body says otherwise. She reaches a hand out, palm up.

Jaskier takes it gladly. “Where _will_ you go after this? Any of us? Once you heal, and Geralt walks again…” Will there be any room left for him in their lives?

Yennefer sits in silence, still hand in hand. Jaskier shudders with the sudden awareness of the chill of the room. Geralt, bless him, wriggles forward and piles his upper half on Jaskier’s lap like his own, personal weighted blanket.

“Triss is coming over. Scoot,” Yennefer says, flicking his side. He does, and Geralt moves with him, him atop the pillows and Geralt back to his lap, though this time with his head angled toward Yennefer and Triss’s vacancy. Yennefer doesn't take up his hand again, but Jaskier quells his heart’s worry at the distance—maybe she’ll stay with them, after. Maybe she won’t. But this distance is artificial to their overall status, only Triss’s advent drawing her away. He’ll feel better when he knows what will come to pass, either way.

The door creaks open, then shut again. A tiny magelight bobs its way above their heads, and Triss follows, climbing in line with Yennefer. They share in a tight embrace so fond it makes Jaskier’s eyes prickle. Or maybe it’s just the light. They’ve sat here in the dark for quite some time, after all. Certainly, just the light.

Yennefer leans back, and he’s surprised to find her head on his chest in an awkward slump. He rearranges, pillowing her head and Geralt both across his body. Triss lays down between Yennefer and Geralt, using Geralt as her own pillow. She has eyes for Yennefer and Yennefer alone, but the smile feels shared with them all, all the same. The fact they allow themselves this closeness in full view a dedication unto itself.

Yennefer is the one to break the silence, but it’s not her that’s speaking. “Geralt will spend winter in Kaer Morhen, then return to the Path come spring.”

Triss hums, pressing a kiss to Yennefer’s forehead. She braces herself with her right arm as she into it, and her fingers press against his leg. Even with the mountain of fur in his lap, they burn.

“Jaskier,” Triss says, and how is it she always sounds so composed? She’s the opposite of Yennefer in that, who shrugs on and off the cloak of formal amicability like some unwanted, too-heavy outerwear in early spring. Triss wears it like a king wears his crown—never cast aside completely, even when dressed down. “My mind is open to Geralt’s right now, you understand, and toward Ciri as well. In preparation of bad dreams.”

She can feel the direction his thoughts are taking, is what she’s saying.

“Is it bad I like it here? That I never wish to leave?” His voice is tiny in the dimly lit room, here in a frigid and lonely castle where he has never felt less alone.

“Somehow, I doubt you’d be happy here for the duration.” Yennefer reaches up an awkward roundabout to pat his shoulder. Her hair tickles his arm, and he smooths it out from below with a curl f his thumb. “Whatever has that bee in your bonnet, you can tell us, little flower.”

His face flushes with heat at the nickname. He’s been called worse, but coming from Yennefer, the endearment feels genuine. Intimate. A confession from her, or a promise. “I don’t want to leave you. Any of you.”

The wind knocks at the windows.

“Geralt—am I to pass that one along?—yes, well, Geralt would love to have you on the Path with him, though he’s rather dubious if you’d enjoy such a thing.” Yennefer loll her head back as she passes along Geralt’s words, tilted to face him. The words are loud and heavy in his ears.

Geralt’s muzzle presses against his thigh. He doesn’t raise his head, doesn’t look at Jaskier, doesn’t move at all beyond that initial shift. But still, Jaskier interprets, or perhaps extrapolates, that this offer is an important one. “Yes,” he says before doubt can claim any of them. He taps his fingers under Geralt’s chin encouragingly. Rather than comply to the letter, his eyes shut—though he raises his head to nuzzle at his palm. “Those adventures of yours—and yes, I am well aware they are not as glamorous as my songs, that is what creative liberty is for, but do not think me ignorant.” He doesn’t need to wait to hear from Yennefer to know that protest on his lips. Or in his mind, rather. “But I would love nothing more than to join you, sweetling.”

Yennefer hums. “He’s not being very articulate at the moment—quite enamored with the scent your giving off, and to each their own, I suppose,” and she rolls right over Jaskier’s indignant noise of protest, “but I’d like to pass along that you have made him quite deliriously happy.”

“Ah, but you did not have to tell me that at all,” Jaskier says. He appreciates that she did, but, “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen his tail wag quite so furiously.”

The tail stops mid wag. Then starts right back up again, undeterred. Geralt licks his palm, barely a kitten lick, but the warm vibration of his body is mirrored in his own, and Jaskier revels in it.

“They’re very sweet, aren’t they?” Triss asks without compunction.

“Like you can say anything, you sap,” Yennefer says, then cuts off with a groan.

“As a tree!” and it must be some longstanding joke of theirs, because Triss all but cackles. Yennefer follows suit, shaking her head and ducking closer to mouth at Triss playfully.

Unwilling to take his hand off Geralt, he goes to the trouble of extracting his arm from under Yennefer just to have a muffle to his own laughter. Their delight is infectious, amplifying his own joyous heart at the prospect that they will have more than this, more than a lonely castle, more than two weeks until their bubble of contentment must be popped. Geralt’s tail thumps against the bed, and his tongue hangs out as Jaskier ruffles the fur along his cheek and throat and laughter shakes the bed frame.

He loves them, very much, and because he’s bad at keeping these sorts of thoughts to himself, he finds himself saying it too. “I love you all.”

Triss looks up, Yennefer nestled in her arms and lips to her neck. She meets his eyes, wickedly playful, kind and adoring. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

“Do you doubt me?” Jaskier knows she doesn’t, knows the tender affection goes both ways.

“I’ve never known a more honest man,” Triss says, and oh.

His cheeks heat. “You’re very kind, my lady.” To recover what’s left of his panache and charm, he blows a kiss and winks at her, though he’d very much like to kiss her if she were within reach.

Yennefer rolls over, back thumping lightly against the wall and one hand still locked with Triss’s. “You’re cute, I’ll give you that much, little flower.”

Triss shakes her head, eyes tight and mouth upturned in fondness. “I believe what Yenna means to say is that we quite like you too, Jaskier. And you, Geralt. Don’t think we don’t hear you.” Her voice is pitched low, soothing and rich with promise.

Jaskier looks down, meets Geralt’s golden gaze. “May I know your words, sweetling?”

Geralt maintains eye contact, unfaltering as Yennefer says, “He’s never known love like this in his life, but wants nothing more than to know it every day henceforth.”

Triss adds, “He’s thinking in a lot of scents right now, and wants your scent, your joy all over Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier goes from misty eyed to crying sooner than he can free a hand to wipe the tears. “Oh, sweetling, of course.” He inclines his head and Geralt rises to meet it. Jaskier presses a kiss to the top of his head. “So,” he says, swiping at the tears before too many can drip into Geralt’s fur, “is that a formal invitation, then? To winter with you at Kaer Morhen with your brothers? Will they mind, my being there?”

Triss’s expression is a fond echo of what Geralt must be feeling. “Lambert will nettle you, Eskel will love you. Vesemir shouldn't protest, not openly. You’re not the first person a witcher’s brought home for a season.”

“Not openly?” He’d rather the oldest of the witchers not merely _tolerate_ him.

Yen, this time. “You’d be the first brought home that anyone is so openly smitten with, so he doesn’t know how Vesemir will react. He wouldn’t say anything to anyone but Geralt alone, however, if he does protest it.”

Geralt huffs in Yennefer’s direction, finding some unknown offense to her words.

Triss laughs, soft and as pretty as bells in the wind. “Call it what you want, but you are unquestionably smitten with our flower.”

“I’m flattered, Geralt, truly!” Jaskier beams innocence, even knowing full well his mages are playing fast and loose with the interpretation of his thoughts to their word choice.

Then, horror of horrors, Jaskier interrupts himself with a yawn that has Yennefer’s head moving with the force of it. “Oh dear,” he mumbles. “I must be a wilting flower, for the night is catching up to me.”

Triss hums. “Not wilting. Your petals may shut for the evening, but you’ll refresh in the morning should we not kick each other in our sleep.”

“You take me too literally—and I you, perhaps. You intend to stay here tonight?”

Jaskier, Triss, and Geralt share uncertain glances.

Yennefer shakes her head. “Nobody wants to move, but three’s a crowd… What if I slept across your back, Geralt? I’m the slightest of us, and three abreast is doable, even with your bulk.”

Triss gets up to apply another round of ointment to her wounds—her chest still the worst of it—which Yennefer follows, helps rub in. They return to bed with herbs and clay saturating the air.

It’s a bit of leapfrog to manage it, but they do—Triss in the middle, Jaskier with an arm over her and tucked against her chest, Yennefer at least three quarters atop Geralt, though wedged close to Triss as much as Geralt’s mass. Jaskier is on the innermost edge and Geralt the outermost, though their mages tuck themselves lower so Jaskier and Geralt have a unfiltered view and reach of each other across the pillows.

Triss sighs beside him, oozing contentment. She and Yennefer are half tangled in each other, and for all she’s nestled in Jaskier’s side the two still manage to cling together like limpets ashore.

Geralt watches him, tail thumping when Jaskier meets his gaze. He licks the air, and Jaskier laughs, pretends to catch a blown kiss and carries it to his mouth, which he kisses and blows back.

“Geralt,” Yennefer threatens, “if you tail does not stop moving, so help me—”

“Shush, Yenna. Let them have this.”

She huffs, disgruntled, but twists to kiss Geralt’s neck herself. “Sweet dreams,” she mumbles into his fur.

“Love you, my star,” Triss says.

“Love you too, my heart,” Yennefer returns, sleepiness overtaking her voice.

“Love you, sweetling,” His words are more subdued than the exchange the other pair shared, though no less warm for it. He slides a hand across the pillows, rests it atop Geralt’s paw who then shoves his muzzle against Jaskier’s arm, tail still ricocheting off the mattress.

“He loves you too, very much,” Triss says, a smile in her voice. “And you’re growing on me too, little flower.”

“Like a weed,” Yennefer says without an ounce of heat.

“I aim to please,” he says with sleepy laughter in his voice.

The magelight winks out.

They sleep. Together, in this castle ravaged by time but untouched by contemporary histories, they have foraged a space for themselves beyond the scope of the world’s hardships. Here, they find peace. Together, they taste acceptance on their tongues; hear hearts beating in tune, in love; see commitments spring up between themselves like spring blossoms. A promise to the future.

If Jaskier is a weed, it is only to survive the storm that blows around them, the snow it piles up, and reemerge the next day to bring joy to all that behold his tenacity.


	15. Interlude: Cos if we join our hands in prayer enough / To God I imagine it all starts to sound like applause.

Eskel and Renfri return to camp carrying half the forest on their person. There’s a twig twice as long as their campfire logs stuck between Eskel’s sword sheaths, and Renfri is mud-splattered under all the leaves and bark embedding themselves into her clothes and skin.

A successful contract, then.

They tarry walking into camp until Renfri points toward Roach’s loose lead (a leaf fluttering down in the wake of the motion), then the body. Too concerned about the unconscious body gaining animation before their riders came back, Roach and Scorpion hadn’t moved more than a few paces off where the sorceress had dropped, but the ropes picked up dirt of their own as they paced their territory.

Eskel kneels over their intruder and rolls her onto her back. “Anyone you know?”

“No. A friend of a friend, maybe.”

Eskel grunts and approaches Roach with an open hand, palm downturned. She nudges her way into a fond stroke from forehead to nose. “Good girl,” he says, then undoes her lead.

“Is that normal? I’ve never seen horses defend a place like that. She’s unconscious for Lilit’s sake! Not even dead.”

Eskel ties the mage’s arms behind her back with the commandeered lead. “Witcher training.”

“Witcher—They’re _horses_.”

“A witcher’s horse, a witcher’s training.”

Renfri stares, eyes moving between Scorpion and Roach with something halfway between fear and respect. Roach snorts and leaves them to their work. She’s done her part, and there’s grass with her name on it. She’ll keep an ear out for them, though. For all she adores her wolves, the trouble they get up to some days…

“Splash of water should do it,” Eskel says.

Sputtering, and then—“Was that quite necessary?”

“You tell me, lady. You’re the interloper.”

“Mm. I suppose you’ve already killed the golem, then?”

“You set that thing on us?” Renfri’s voice is more shrill than usual. “I nearly died!”

“ _You_ were not part of the equation. I merely had sights on the witcher. Though for the record, the golem was an honest contract.”

“Well, take a good look. And while you’re at it, talk.”

“I am Tissaia de Vries, and your harassment of my pupils is not appreciated. I’ll have to insist you stop bothering them at once.”

“Not happening.”

“Mm, I wouldn’t be so hasty if I were you. After all, I believe I have the information you seek. One of my mages contacted me a short time ago about an oddity—a cursed witcher by the name of Geralt. Your quarry, I presume?”

Roach lifts her head at her wolf’s name. Eskel and Renfri seem similarly enraptured, backs ramrod straight and closing in a semi-circle around Tissaia.

“That’s him. What else did your mage say?”

“They’re in Castle Narok, and your witcher does not have much time left, one way or another. So much so, I found it worth accelerating my timeline and set up this contract of yours to get in touch when I ascertained the purpose of your little witch hunt. My mages will find the cure if there is one, or they won’t. No hedgewitch or small town sorcerer will know half as much as Triss and Yennefer, I assure you.”

“Why tell us this? Why help us?” Renfri’s voice is cool and steady as steel now, prospecting and wary.

“Geralt has seen to their recovery from battle, and I owe him a debt. I should like to see the debt repaid. If Yennefer and I open a portal for the two of you, it shall be so.”

“The four—we aren’t leaving Roach and Scorpion behind.”

Tissaia looks at Roach appraising. She snorts and meets her gaze, defiant at the interloper who speaks her wolf’s name.

“Hmm. Normal beasts shrink from magic, but perhaps yours will not, witcher. Four, then. And to settle all accounts, your money for the contract.”

Tissaia tosses a small pouch at Eskel, who catches and weighs it before slipping it in his bag. Now in motion, he continues packing. Roach ambles closer to offer him easy access to her saddlebags.

The urgency in the air is palpable, and Roach senses the change with an urgent beat of her hoof to the ground. They will find her wolf soon. The world will be set right.


	16. ‘Hold the hand of the god-child’ they said

Geralt would say last night felt like a dream, but his dreams were never so kind. He wakes with black hair in his face—one strand in his mouth, a hand hooked around his horn and flattening his ear, a knee rammed into his hip, and something pinching his tail. It’s the most comfortable wake-up he’s ever had outside of Kaer Morhen.

Three bodies, soft and warm and unafraid, piled around him. Their scents mingle together, even and content in sleep, but loitering rose and cotton and honey fills the air finer than any potpourri.

His tail wriggles free from under Triss’s ankle and wags. He has little say in the matter, the motion as instinctive as a heaving gasp when shortchanged air. But it swishes through the air and blows their scents around and he can’t bring himself to so much as begrudge it. Rosemary and thyme, lilac and gooseberries, pine and nutmeg.

It’s intoxicating, and he’ll be damned if he lets one novel, furry appendage ruin it for him. And the scents circulate better as it fans the air.

Maybe it has its uses.

He isn’t sure what to do with himself. It’s predawn, if that. Gray lights creeps into the room, distant off the northern and western facing windows. Stretching his neck out and twisting his head gets the majority of Yennefer’s hair off his face and dislodges Jaskier’s hold on his horn, but any more movement by him and he may cause a minor avalanche between bedfellows. Yennefer’s knee stays lodged against his hip.

He doesn’t want to wake them. That’s what he tells himself as he flops his head back down, nudges at Jaskier’s hand with his muzzle. He stirs in his sleep and, with Geralt’s tail thumping against the bed embarrassingly loud, resettles his hand on Geralt’s forehead. The heel of his palm is only a little in his eye. That’s fine. Geralt closes his eyes against the too-welcome intrusion, and though he doesn’t go back to sleep and can’t quite construe this as meditation, it’s the most comfortable (warm, content, ~~happy~~ ) he’s been in years, his mind a still summer lake fortified against any disturbance.

Well, almost any.

Not twenty minutes past his own wake up, Ciri screams from down the hall. Geralt is shaking off his trio of partners and scrambling to his feet in seconds, Triss the first to follow him upright. Before he can so much as consider a desperate scratch of the door, Triss twists the brass knob open for him. “Nightmare,” she confirms for him. “Go!”

Geralt springs down the hall. The door is cracked open, and Ciri twists in her bed, nails scratching anything in reach. Before she catches her own arm in the crossfire, Geralt lashes out, his front paws landing heavy on the other side of her body, pinning her arms under the weight of his chest. He shoves his nose at her shoulder as she writhes a moment longer, but her eyes are open and breaths are shuddering gasps, not screams.

“G—” she hiccups. “Geralt!”

Geralt huffs wetly, and she hugs him so tight a human’s ribs might ache with the force of it. He turns his head and Triss is in the doorway now, but upon catching his eye she nods and creeps away. He’s not sure he’s the one best cut out for this job, but if Ciri finds comfort in his presence then so be it.

Ciri relaxes her grip. (And was it wrong, that twitch of pride in him? She’s stronger than she looks.) Her breath shakes her body, her heart beat so erratic he feels the jump of it in her palm.

Geralt pulls away from her entirely, and Ciri’s scent spasms grief-stricken like a rotting log. The misunderstanding pains him, but he backs away to jump on uninhabited corner of the bed. Crushing Ciri beneath his bulk would be the worst way to stop the crying, effective though the lack of air would be. (At this, he swears he feels an amused graze against his mind. Either Triss or Yen listening in—or likely both, the capable multitaskers they are. Yennefer, he decides. Her sense of humor aligns with his own, and even if he’s imagining lilac and gooseberries, that doesn’t mean it isn’t real in its own sense of the word.)

The bed creaks under his added weight as he lumbers forward, unable to do anything _but_ tower over Ciri, but she’s as undeterred as yesterday. He lays down, she flings herself into his side. Her breaths bubble as she composes herself, sniffing into his fur and wiping at her eyes.

Geralt, in his most creative show of outreach yet, lifts a paw and settles it upon her back. The awkward angle scarcely lends itself to being called a hug, but Ciri snuggles into him as if it were. His chin slots easier across the back of her neck as she carves herself a burrowed nest out of his fur. Like a swallow hiding in its nest before it finds itself capable of flight.

It’s minutes before her breathing evens, longer for her heartbeat, and nearly half an hour before she speaks. “Do you have nightmares?” She sits up, knees to her chest.

Geralt nods.

“What are they—Are they ever about people you know?”

Another nod. Monsters and friends and stranger circle his dreams like a vulture with carrion, endless and swooping in and out, interchangeable. A not-unpleasant dream one moment, a nightmare the next.

“When I wake up, I want to go check on them. Make sure they’re okay.” She looks away, eyes cast to the floor. “But I can’t because even if the dream wasn’t real, they still got hurt. They’re still—” A hitch of breath. “They’re gone. And when I wake up, with them not there... It's hard to tell myself the dreams aren’t real when being _not_ real doesn’t change anything.”

Geralt shuffles forward. Extends a paw to mash against her leg. It’s woefully insufficient, hardly a bandage to this girl who has lost her entire life to war. But it’s all he can offer, and Ciri takes his paw with a thin, watery smile. Bags frame her eyes, a charcoal gray weariness, sleeplessness.

A deep breath later, she looks down at her feet, chin at her knees. “Will the dreams ever go away?”

Geralt hesitates, but she deserves the truth. He shakes his head. They get better over time, but for their familiarity rather than absence. The dreams she has now may recede, but there is no shortage of horrors in the world to give her more.

“I’m scared. The black knight, black wings upon his helm, astride a horse with black caparisons. He… I _hate_ him,” she spits out through tears. “I don’t want to be scared of him anymore!”

Geralt whines, a soft thing in the back of his throat. Sympathetic. A witcher may not feel fear, not like a mortal, but—

Yennefer in the doorway. The door is already open, cracked as Triss left it, but she knocks on the splintering wood. “May I come in, little one?”

Ciri shrugs and looks away, wipes more discretely at her tears and running nose.

“Geralt would like to say something to you, and I am his mouthpiece.” And he her eyes. Geralt watches for her, inviting her into his mind with a fixation upon his senses. The lilac and gooseberries scrape at the edges of the damp rust and thick, syrupy rot stinging his nose with the saffron-poppy of Ciri’s natural scent of contentment buried far beneath either, as faint as a mouthful of blood tastes of salt. The room’s westerly light shines dimly in the room, but his cat-slit eyes have no problem picking out minute detail. He focuses on this, and Yennefer crosses the room, sits on Ciri’s bed with a natural confidence. With how far she’s come in relying on others for sight, Ciri may not even know of her affliction.

“You say you don’t want to be scared, but fear is a tricky thing. It thrives in the unknown, and it is impossible to know all. Stay afraid, but do it anyway,” Yennefer says for him, says what Nenneke once passed along to him. “You will find your feet beneath you only after you take the first step.” Yennefer’s hand reaches out, and Geralt switches from watching Ciri’s face (carefully blank, though with her lower lip in her mouth and a strained crease across her brow) to match Yennefer’s movements. Her hand settles against his lower back, and she drags her fingertips across his fur, repeats it rhythmically.

Thank you, he says, clear in his mind.

She gives an elongated stroke, then returns to the smaller, soothing motions. Geralt would smile if he could smile and she could see. Instead, he passes that warmth along to her, another exercise in mindfulness fixated upon the the comfort he finds in her scent and touch.

“Do you ever get scared?” Ciri eventually mumbles—toward Yennefer, for all that she refuses to look at her. Something about her seems to rub Ciri the wrong way, but Geralt will take nettle discomfort over her previous, fitful state.

Yennefer frowns, a dainty little thing with a downward dart of lips. Offers to Ciri carefully, “I am always afraid, for there is always something to fear. Rightfully so, in many cases. But I never—I try my best to avoid myopia in spite of it. Not the easiest road to walk, but it becomes… easier. With time, and with companionship. You are not alone, little one, not any more.”

“But you’re so powerful!” Ciri protests. “I heard, in towns. What they said. A woman with violet eyes and raven hair, she stopped the Nilfgaard mages! That’s you, isn’t it? If you can beat them, couldn’t you be brave all the time?”

“I nearly lost my wife,” Yennefer snaps, patience waning. “That alone is enough to strike fear into my heart for the rest of time.”

Geralt would like to out that Yennefer wasn’t sunshine and roses when she arrived either, but it’s a lost cause with her. For all she carries herself closely inward, she has pushed her heart outside of herself, into the hands of the world. Much like himself. His brothers, and now his… Hmm, he would have to ask Jaskier, later.

With the revelation, Ciri’s mouth forms a little ‘o’ of surprise before recomposing herself into guarded neutrality. She still shies away from looking at Yen, and he hasn’t the heart to remind her that what he sees, Yennefer sees. She twists her fingers into the bedding, rusty agitation on the rise. “If I didn't care about anyone, it wouldn’t hurt.”

Geralt scarcely has a complete thought before Yennefer parrots his, her, their answer. “That, little one, would be the most painful life of them all.”

Without Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert… Perish the thought.

In the ill-formed silence that follows, a heartbeat ascends the stairs, familiar as a worn glove. Jaskier knocks at the door frame as Yennefer did, peaking inside with delighted fanfare. “Ah! Would the princess care for breakfast?” Jaskier says with a musical lilt and clap of his hands. There’s not a trace of anything but congeniality in his tone, impressive considering the draft of worry that follows him in.

The promise of food is enough to distract Ciri, who peels away from them to run to the kitchens. Jaskier hovers in the hallway, waiting for his emergence. Geralt crosses the threshold and Jaskier bends down, putting them at eye level with a hand outstretched. “Is she quite alright?”

Geralt leans into his proffered touch and sighs, almost a growl on his tongue like the roll of a distant storm.

“Scared shitless,” Yennefer says. It could be she’s passing along his thoughts, but that would certainly be putting words in his mouth. “But I must say, Destiny did well to send her to a witcher. She has the heart of a lioness.”

“Much like her grandmother, then,” Jaskier assesses.

“Her splitting image. Had I had half the wits about magic, I might say someone has transplanted the woman’s very soul,” Yennefer says with a snort. She looks down the hallway at the memory of their fled charge. “Jaskier, a request of you if I may.”

“Of course, my lady,” he says and guides Yennefer’s hand upward to kiss the back of it.

She flicks her wrist at him as if shooing a fly, but not until he’s planted the kiss and moved back into place (a hand behind his horn).

“Ciri is not especially fond of me, but has taken a shine to yourself and Triss. When you go out today,” she says, gesturing toward the courtyard, “take her with you? Put her to work where you can. She’ll sleep better if she finds the opportunity to work off that restless energy, and right now she stands directionless.”

Triss and Jaskier, hmm.

“Something to say, Geralt?” Yennefer plucks the half-formed thought from his mind. “Ah. Triss doesn’t know the art. Jaskier…” She narrows her eyes at him, dubious. “You wouldn’t happen to know the basics of sword fighting, would you?”

“What’s this about? You’d like me to teach Ciri?” Geralt nods, and Jaskier hums contemplatively. “I suppose I could, though I dare say I fight like nobility and not a witcher. You may not approve, sweetling.”

It wouldn’t do to teach her bad habits, especially so early in her training. He spares a moment of regret that he never invited Jaskier to train with him when he had the chance, though he had looked on with interest while strumming away, sharing space in the guard room.

Yennefer sizes them up. “Perhaps not, then, though it was a good thought, Geralt. We may be able to orchestrate something between us, but not until the snow is shoveled and the beds are tended to, and we need more hands on that than we do Ciri’s training. Triss fears a great deal of frost damage will have to be pruned away, and the sooner the two of you get to that, the healthier our remaining plants will be.”

Jaskier nods. The words are for his benefit, he knows, and he sends his gratitude toward Yennefer for the status update. The blizzard’s damage is done, but they will persist in tending to the remnants until, well. His cure, if he’s to be optimistic about it.

“Good boy,” Yennefer says with an amused lilt.

He snorts at the wordplay (though more of a sneeze in practice).

Yennefer leaves, but Jaskier hovers in the hallway. Geralt sits beside him, expectant. It doesn’t take long.

Jaskier kneels at his side. Hugs him. Gives him his warmth so freely that Geralt’s heart aches with the weight of it. “A busy day today,” Jaskier says into his fur. He’d be surprised if he doesn’t get a mouthful of it with how closely he’s pressed up against him. “Love you, Geralt.”

The words echo in his head, reverence and fondness already coloring them honey-sweet. He doesn’t say the words often, himself (Eskel, nights spent wrapped around each other. Lambert, in the baths rarely or more often when drunk, because Lambert needs drink to loosen his tongue, an excuse for his sweetness. Vesemir, every time he leaves for the Path. That particular tradition started years ago, not long after the massacres, and he’d be loathe to forfeit it now.), but for Jaskier—by the time he’s on two feet, he swears to himself the bard will not want for those words. He gives so much of himself, and Geralt would reciprocate wholly in turn.

 _Awoof_ , he offers in its stead, and Jaskier laughs, eyes squinting with his full body, wholehearted delight as they always do. His smile is as rosy as his scent, and Geralt wants to bask in it. Does bask, for as long as he’s able.

“We’ll talk later, alright?” Jaskier says more than asks with a parting ruffle to his fur.

Geralt nods into his hand, eyes drifting shut and savoring the moment.

They walk to the kitchen together in amicable almost-silence, Jaskier humming a smattering of notes and tapping the wall as they go. Rosemary and thyme fill the halls. Contentment radiates off Jaskier as naturally as breath itself.


	17. Interlude: I ask your eyes

Roach whinnies twice while Renfri and Eskel pack. Scorpion mirrors her first sympathetically, and snorts derisively at her second. She leans in to bite his shoulder in retaliation, but Eskel rushes between them, hands up and a bag hanging from his arm. “Easy, girl. We’ll be off soon.”

She tears at the ground, grass runners pooling at her feet as she exercises her restlessness. The sorceress loiters on their outskirts. She _knows_ they were talking about Geralt.

Scorpion huffs at her ear and she backs away, giving him space to eat her torn-apart greens. She’d rather be watching the sorceress anyway.

Tissaia stands with the casual confidence magic affords most magic users, but the peonies and cherries of her and her magic coil in the camp like the thick perfumes favored in the city. It’s overpowering enough to even overtakes her bloodied scent, and in fact, might be the sorceress healing up the gash Scorpion had given her entirely. Her ear flicks in mild disappointment at the notion. She deserved it, rifling through their stuff.

In the meantime, Renfri spends more time rubbing herself clean and picking detritus off herself than she does at Roach’s saddlebags, but as it’s Eskel’s witcher gear taking the longest to pack away, she can't be too aggravated at her temporary rider.

Then, they’re ready. Eskel mounts Scorpion, Renfri joins her, and Tissaia condenses magic between her hands and in her eyes.

“You and Roach first,” Eskel says.

Roach snorts at her name. Her reins are tightened, then loosened again. Renfri’s nervous tick, bundling then giving slack. She’s lucky Roach is feeling generous.

Tissaia casts the lighting-coiled energy from her hands, and the perfume is electric-tinged, all but sparking in the air. A portal opens.

Roach taps her sides, and Eskel’s voice rings out, “Forward, Roach! Go to Geralt.”

She needs no more encouragement than that. Roach passes through the piercing rivulets of magic, like a waterfall but pushing against her skin like frigid pricks of metal on all sides. On the other side, she nearly loses her footing—what once was grass, now snow past her hoof with an icy sheen and crunching into the dirt as she wades through. She hurries forward, circles the clearing, and Scorpion follows behind on steadier feet than she. Tissaia is the last through the portal, and it shuts behind her with a hollow thump like the swing of a heavy door against an empty room.

Renfri dismounts, wobbles, and nearly falls to the snow face-first in her haste to get away. She hunches over, a hand to Roach’s flank, looking how Roach feels.

She’d take a climb up a mountain over a portal any day. Any day except today, where her wolf’s name is quick on everyone’s tongue, and excitement brews in the camp like dry kindling alight.

A man, a woman, and a girl shout from the bailey below. Tissaia waves one down, but Roach ignores them scenting the air. There’s something old and dead nearby, but what’s far more important is the scent of her wolf.

Her wolf, who emerges from beyond the castle doors, a lilac and gooseberry mage stationed beside him. He doesn’t move, so roach does, striding forward and leaving Renfri without scaffold. He looks different—on all fours like she and covered in fur thicker than her own pelt—but his scent is unmistakable and Roach neighs as loud as she pleases, greeting her wolf. Then rams her snout into his chest to protest he ever dare leave her behind.

The mage beside him laughs loudly. Geralt nearly topples over at the force of her shove, but regains his footing and peers up (up!) into her own eyes.

Hurt, are you hurt, my wolf?

No, his scent says. Happy. Happy, surprised, excited, as excited as Eskel.

She whuffs into his fur, still disappointed in his failure to return to her in a timely manner. But she’s here now, and she’s managed to keep her wolf out of the worst of trouble (mostly) and alive (unquestionably) for this long, and she’ll not be stopping now. All the same, he had better give her apples to make up for the stress he’s put her through. Portals, by skies above!

But it was worth it, and she’ll do it again too if that means keeping her wolf at her side.


	18. But that second wind is coming love, it’s coming for all we own

They fall into a rhythm. Nightmares, breakfast, gardening—with he and Yennefer often retreating to Triss’s makeshift lab, wherein Geralt guides her steps for ointment and potion-making—then food and Jaskier’s playing until the day’s close. They sleep together, all four of them piled up twice more, to Geralt’s pleasure in spite of the cramped bed.

It’s interrupted twice when, halfway through the week Triss announces she will be teaching Ciri things of court and history. She hopes, she says but does not demand, that the others will contribute where they can.

Unsubtle as ever, Jaskier sits in during the days he offers lessons, scribbles away more diligent than Ciri herself as he describes monsters to her satisfaction, as per translated by Yennefer.

While it’s not Vampires 101, he does get to the bruxa. Jaskier shines like the sun, beaming at him the whole lesson.

He hears a new song floating through the castle the morning after. Where he found the time, Geralt doesn’t know, but Jaskier’s mind is quick and fingers deft. If anyone could compose a song off a monster’s bestiary overnight, it would be him.

The hummed notes get stuck in his head, and he can’t even bring himself to be so much as annoyed about it. The catchier it is, after all, the more people that might retain the lore.

It's on one of these sluggish afternoons, Yennefer in the middle of the cold-brew stages of another healing potion to knit together Triss’s patchy, dry skin that she reacts to their second interruption of schedule.

Sugared excitement supplants her magic-stable lilac and gooseberries before she moves, before she speaks. Geralt watches her, straight-backed, shove two bowls of half-combined ingredients aside. She turns to him, hand weaving around a horn. “Courtyard, now.”

A sensation creeps into his head, a second sight on top of his own. It’s from Triss, he realizes with surprise, her mind a dwarven level in sharp contrast to Yennefer’s own maelstrom touch. He sees down-looking-up two figures on horseback, and another in focus—Tissaia, he gleans from Triss’s head.

Then she glances to the others—

He stumbles down the steps, and only Yennefer’s reflexive grab at his scruff stops him from falling. His muscles twitch in anticipation. He wants to _run_. Run to Eskel, to Roach, for surely that is who followed Tissaia here. But he swallows down his harried need and walks Yennefer to the front door, who opens them both for his sake. Neither of them can quite get by without the other.

Roach is the first to greet him. She’s sleek, well-fed, unafraid. Tries to knock him over in a show of displeasure, but nuzzles into him in the same breath.

“That,” Yennefer says, “is one strange horse.”

He can’t argue that, for even if he had Roach here, he wouldn’t have thought she would take to his new, wolf-like form kindly. But she sniffs him over like an old friend, or a brooding hen tending the nest, and a piece of him falls back into place. She’s safe and well-tended. He huffs with restless energy, and Yennefer reaches out on his behalf, trying to pet Roach’s nose as he so wants to. His mind forms a wordless protest, but she nips at Yennefer’s fingers before he can say a word otherwise.

As protective and aggressively not fond of magic as ever. He offers a sheepish apology to Yennefer in his mind, who waves him off, then wiping the horse slobber on hands discretely onto her dress.

Then, Eskel, Jaskier, and—huh—Renfri make their approach. Eskel shoves his way past Roach unrepentantly, who takes up half the doorway. Renfri leans on Jaskier for support, looking more than a little green around the gills.

Eskel opens his mouth. Shuts it.

Worry is sharp in his nose. Geralt falls back inside the castle, turns to look at Eskel and encourage him in. He follows. Stands in the middle of the room uncertainly while Jaskier ushers Renfri into a chair, promises her water and darts off.

“Wolf,” Eskel says, their usual greeting more unsteady than usual. “One hell of curse.”

Geralt snorts.

“Shall I translate, Geralt?” Yennefer hovers by the doorway, though out of Roach’s reach.

She wants to be with Tissaia. That’s fine; he can manage one wordless conversation with Eskel, he’s sure.

Yennefer smiles, alight with his easy acquiescence. He keeps his eyes trained on the ground beneath her until she’s out of sight, hopefully with Triss or Ciri soon to follow.

His eyes return to Eskel. Concern is writ into his brown, his scent, his tense posture. He wishes he could wipe it away, tell him it’s fine, he’s fine, but he knows how different he must look to someone not watching the gradual descent for near half a year.

“You’re still you, then?”

Geralt nods sharply. Noses at Eskel’s hand, limp at his side. He doesn’t react, and Geralt huffs, tries to push Eskel into petting him with a duck of his head. It’s one of the few good things to come out of this curse, how liberally the others will touch him, and he wants that rapport with Eskel too.

Instead of pets, Eskel runs a finger across the shell of his ear. Traces a horn, feels the weight of them, pats at the base and follows the ridging. His concern weighs heavy in his touch, in the air like upturned earth.

“Water for you both, if you’d like,” Jaskier announces to the room. Two earthenware cups in each hand, and their endless water bowl in the notch of his elbow.

Renfri takes it with a garbled thanks.

Eskel takes a step back as Jaskier approaches, who swoops in and plants a kiss on Geralt’s forehead. Even in the face of Eskel’s confusion, he preens at the contact. “Who’s this, then?” His eyes sweep across Eskel, appraising, then taps a hand to the wolf medallion at his chest. Eskel has no idea what to do with himself, and Geralt feels like he’s looking into a mirror of his past self. Just how he felt as the bard descended upon him the first time, and worse yet (for Eskel) considering the overwhelming sugared, honeyed delight rolling off him in waves. “Eskel or Lambert, I should think?”

Never let it be said Jaskier doesn’t listen when he talks.

“Eskel. Who are you? Tissaia didn’t tell us to expect more company than her mages, not that I’m displeased for it,” he says, eyes flicking to Geralt.

“Jaskier. A humble troubadour at your service, dear witcher!”

Ciri takes this moment to run into the castle at full throttle, breezing past Eskel to flop in front of Geralt and look up at her victim of choice. “Jaskier,” she whines, “Triss wants me to take the horses to the stable, but they’re so _big_. Help?” She dramatically flops into Geralt’s chest, face buried in his ruff. “Tired,” she mutters into his fur.

“Ah, ah, what’s the magic word?” Jaskier offers a sheepish, placating expression to Eskel as he crouches beside them both, a hand in Ciri’s hair as well as his own.

Ciri twists to narrow a glare at him. “Yen said there isn’t such a thing, not like you mean it! And that you should stop calling it that.”

“And what did I say about Yen’s courtly manners?”

“That… she sucks at them… And to do as she says, not as she does? But she said it this time!”

“Merely heckling me, I fear,” Jaskier sighs. “No imagination in kids these days, honestly. I stand revised, little bird: say please, and I would be glad to assist.”

Ciri wrinkles her nose. “ _You_ ’d help me even if I didn't say _the word_ , wouldn’t you, Geralt?”

Geralt barks a laugh and shakes his head. He probably wouldn’t have noticed otherwise, but this is one fight he’s staying out of. Triss has swayed Jaskier into seeing the logic of raising Ciri as the Cintran princess she is.

“Ugg, fine! Please, Jaskier?”

“There we go. Not so hard now, was it?” Jaskier smiles sweetly, and Geralt noses his cheek before he manages to get his feet under him. Jaskier pecks the top of his head in retaliation, ruffles his fur.

“I guess,” Ciri grumps at him. They leave, Jaskier with a parting wave.

Eskel seems as discombobulated as a witcher can get. Geralt takes a bit of private pride in this. He’ll lord it over him later, but it fills a warm place in his heart, how casual they are, even around a cursed witcher, or witcher at all. It’s an oddity as much as a treasure.

“They’ve been staying with you then?” Eskel gets out past his confusion. He puts a tentative hand on Geralt’s head.

He counts it as good progress and nods.

“And… The curse? Do you think they can break it?”

That, Geralt doesn’t have to think about. He nods, surety making the movement more pronounced. He promised his trust, and more than that, they’ve convinced him in their stories that with Tissaia bringing medical supplies and her own person, one of the three of them will unwind Stregobor’s curse, regardless of what the man has to say about it himself. The crystal, after all, can draw the sorcerer in. By words, by magic, by death, by anything—they will break it.

“That’s, err. Good. You really had me worried there, wolf.” The endearment slips through easier this time, though Eskel jolts a little upon saying it himself. “Renfri and I have been looking for you.”

Geralt cocks his head, looking past Eskel and at Renfri in open curiosity. Mud clings to her in odd spots like frost upon metal. Leaves and bits of bark dot mud, clothes, and skin. Eskel, too, has a few sprigs and leaves across him, though much less than Renfri’s disarray. They both smell of green things, bruised skin, and drying mud.

“Guess I owe you a story as much as you owe me one, huh? Alright, then.” Eskel sits.


	19. You turn the telly on / To drown out your fear

Eskel’s skin prickles as he tells Geralt the story of his search. His medallion hums something awful against his chest, has since the moment he set foot on castle grounds.

Seeing Geralt like this… It’s a knife in the gut, a reminder that no matter how good the witcher, they’re not invulnerable. He acts well enough, almost happy, especially as the bard and child flit by with the promise of a midday meal, and again when the trio of mages passes through the room. But the imposed silence on Geralt’s end, his strange, wolf-twisted form worries him more than he can bring himself to admit.

He concludes his tale with a glance in Renfri’s direction, who still hasn’t quite recovered from portal travel. A first timer’s bad luck, or something more? Still, she’s kept her stomach and they don't have anywhere pressing to be right now, so he leaves her to her recovery.

He looks back down. The only thing that hasn’t changed about Geralt are his eyes.

Other curses so like this cross his mind. Trepidation settles like a lead weight in his gut. “The mage offered to translate for you, earlier. Think she’d be willing?”

Geralt stands with a comfortable _woof_ , turns to lead him inside the castle.

“Renfri?” He offers a hand, and she looks up, bleary eyed.

She takes one look at them, poised for the door, shrugs and takes his hand. Her upright shuffle is pained.

“Still the portal?”

“ _Never_ ,” she says with more vehemence than anything he’s heard from her, bar insulting Stregobor, “again. Never.”

They follow Geralt, who glances back twice as they go.

“You know,” he starts, finding himself altogether less hesitant to offer up the information now that he’s among others, another hand to keep her in check if needs must. “You aren’t the first born under a Black Sun I’ve come across. She nullified magic in the area. I haven’t felt the same around you, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t some form of interference.”

Renfri squints at him, and he has the striking feeling that she’d be calling him out for being cagey, before, if not for her physical misery. “Wouldn’t surprise me,” she finally says.

Geralt turns a corner. He follows, still guiding Renfri with a hand to her back. Inside is warm, warmer than the rest of the castle has been by a long shot. There’s something brewing under the influence of mage-induced heat, simmering lowly and casting a medicinal scent into the air.

The purple-eyed mage from earlier is the first to greet them, or Geralt, rather. She turns, stares blankly, then walks over to sit in a free chair in the opposite corner of the room. Geralt bounds toward her with unmatched eagerness, though the mage caresses him fondly, greets him with a kiss.

He looks away, uncomfortable with the display for reasons he’d rather not ruminate on with Geralt close enough to catch his scent.

The other mage waves him closer from her seat by the cauldron Tissaia hovers over. Renfri shuffles behind him with his approach.

Triss takes his hand in greeting freely and gasps, no doubt excited by the magic current he’s been repeatedly informed he puts off. “My,” she says to herself, then drops his hand with a flush to dark cheeks. She squirms, and looks up at him, reassessing. It takes her a breath longer to compose herself and stop staring. “Ah. I’m Triss. That’s Yennefer,” she says with a nod in the direction of purple-eyes. “Tissaia tells me you’re here to help? Geralt’s mentioned you, Eskel. I’m glad you’re here,” she says with a warm smile, not waiting for his response. “Let me guess, wanted to talk to Geralt? Yennefer usually does it since she insists, well—no, you have more important things to talk about than listen to me prattle, I’m sure.”

Tissaia holds a phial out in front of Triss. She smiles awkwardly at him. Takes the phial and drinks it.

“Your magic,” Tissaia says with a whip-stern tone, “is still in recovery. And I’m more than happy to see Yennefer doing such inconsequential duties if that means you preserve yourself for healing!”

“It’s important,” Triss says, but interrupts her protest to drink the next phial Tissaia comes up with. She doesn’t make a face, but the smell of dark and bitter leafy greens emanates from the glass so strongly he would guess to its poor taste. “We’ve been monitoring him. Both of us, when we can. He’s more comfortable that way, especially with Ciri around. Jaskier too, but Ciri’s… different.”

Eskel’s half-confusion must show on his face, because Triss peeks at him and continues, “The curse was unspecific as to if he’d lose his mind or not. In the weeks we’ve been here, he’s unchanged, but there’s always the chance, especially now…”

Now that he’s more beast than man, she doesn’t say.

“Thank you,” Eskel says plainly. Puts a palm on her shoulder in thanks, then removing it just as quick.

“Of course,” she says with a smile, eyes sliding past him and Renfri—to Geralt, he confirms with a glance. “No trouble at all.”

“Last one, Triss.” Tissaia passes another phial along.

Renfri sways beside him, and Eskel steadies her, helps her droop into a chair.

“Oh dear, are you alright?” Triss snatches Renfri’s wrist and takes her heartbeat with a frown.

“Black Sun children and magic don't seem to mix all too well,” Eskel says on her behalf. “She’s been like this since she came out of the portal.”

“Why didn't you say anything? It’s Renfri, right?”

Renfri nods at Triss, a little more alert than she was with Eskel alone. She watches them in interest, Triss’s mother-hening and Tissaia still tinkering with reagents. He keeps a steadying hand on Renfri’s back just in case, but she shrugs him off after her attention slips from the darting of mages to the offered support.

“I’ll be fine,” she grouses.

Eskel knows witcher remedies better than that for any human—or, semi-human as she may be. With that in mind, he leaves Renfri in the mages’ more capable hands, and walks off with designs to talk to Geralt.

\---

Geralt reaches Yennefer, who sprawls on her chair, ointment clinging to her fingertips and relief to her body, a cool stream and spongy moss. She smells nice, and he basks in her presence and scent with the acute mindfulness he’s grown familiar with, dipping into it when talking to either mage.

Her gratitude dips across his mind, the gentlest of intrusions. She beckons him closer and kisses his forehead like a monarch knighting a favored warrior.

“To think, soon I won’t have an excuse to be inside your mind at all,” she says, something faintly dour in her tone.

He wouldn’t mind at all if she were to just… not stop. Even assuming their lives return to their definition of normal, their frequent mental touches back and forth are something of a greater comfort than the fulfillment of physical needs alone. To be able to reach out with sensation, by intent, wordless and open and to be heard without judgment—it’s something out of a dream. Slightly unreal, too good to be true.

She kisses him again, and joy tints the air and their bond alike.

“You’re too good to me, sweet boy.”

Geralt huffs at the endearment, but she’s so honest that he can’t begrudge her it, even in front of Eskel. He glances back, and he’s preoccupied with the others in the room anyway, so he _supposes_ he can forgive her.

Yennefer laughs at his pointed thought. “You would have anyway,” she says, both hands working him over. The heavy-handed pets are positively blissful, especially in the wake of the off-kilter stress Eskel carried for them both during their one-sided conversation.

“Is he not taking it well, then?”

Eskel, so hesitant to touch him and even more to trust, disbelieving where Geralt had—admittedly, painstakingly—grown to have faith.

“Hmm. I’m surprised, I must say. Tissaia brought him here for your sake more than ours. She’s sure, Geralt,” Yennefer says, voice sopping with reassurance and care, “I asked and she said. There’s nothing Stregobor has involved himself with that we cannot fix. She, and the rest of the Brotherhood at her back. She’s been busy, working against Nilfgaard, and one of the more successful and vocal about it.”

He already believed her, but the extra dose of it is a comfort all the same.

She scratches behind a horn. His tail thumps.

Though he hardly needs to hear the words, the answer so ingrained in her demeanor—and the levity coats her so thoroughly as to be infectious—but he looks into violet eyes, the ultimate question arising.

“Yes,” she says, quiet but pleased. “It may take some time, but she brought supplies—premade potions and fresh ingredients both. She believes Triss’s potions have been paving the way, but with what she brought, well. A couple of days, if I’m lucky. Apparently she gave word to the rest of the local chapter, who contributed bits and pieces. All high quality. They’re splurging on their war heroes… As it should be,” she says, but Geralt can tell the gift strikes unexpected for her.

But yes, Yennefer getting as much help as her Brotherhood can offer is as it should be, in his book. His opinion of the band of mages goes up a notch. They take care of their own.

Yennefer chuckles, pets along his snout with a finger. “It’s cute how invested you are. I promise I would have been fine with or without their help.”

He knows. She’s as resourceful, resilient, and creative as they come.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she says, but honey curls up between drafts of rose and cotton and her natural scent, all the stronger for the potion’s renewal of her magical vigor.

Eskel’s footsteps approach from behind him. His tail, traitorously but to less aggravation than it usually merits, thumps against the stone floor.

“Yennefer?” Eskel toes a spare chair forward, angles it toward Yennefer and himself.

“Be my guest,” she says, tugging Geralt forward so his head rests on her lap.

Geralt noses into it, content to get physical contact where he can, even if Yennefer has gotten it into her head to test Eskel or incite him in some way.

Eskel’s better than that. Very little gets under his skin, and when it does, he speaks his concerns outright. It’s why they’ve always gotten along; he’ll never leave Geralt guessing.

“Triss says you’re both reading his mind—constantly now?”

“I do, whenever I’m awake. Triss, only sometimes. He’s my seeing eye dog,” she says with am amused gleam. “I translate for him, between him and Jaskier and Ciri. And now you,” the comment as much an invitation as she’ll give him.

She’s been sitting on the seeing eye dog comment for awhile, he can tell. He grumbles into the fabric of her dress. Yennefer, entirely unrepentant, lets her humor curl along his mind.

Well, she’s barking up the wrong tree if she wants to get a rise out of him.

Yennefer laughs out loud at that, one hand drawn up to her mouth, and she rubs behind Geralt’s ear with renewed interest.

“Geralt, dear, if you would be so kind as to _behave yourself_ ,” she says in a faux-stern tone.

But Geralt examines Eskel—body, face, and scent—and the leery stance he’s kept eases with Yennefer’s good humor.

“I suppose it would have been said already, otherwise, but you’re sure, then? That he’s entirely himself?”

“His mind,” Yennefer says with a pat between his horns, “is his own and no other. Of that, I am sure. Never have his thoughts struck me as any less developed than when we first met, and he is in full control of his faculties. The moment that changes, I will say the word. But for now, be at ease. He is watched, and, for now, unchanged.”

With his scent mellowing out with finality, Eskel smiles, a warming accompaniment to the steady thrum of juniper and wool he exudes. Geralt lifts his head and leans forward, head ducked for easy access.

Eskel takes the bait. His hand rubs with the grain, at first, then he scratches Geralt in earnest.

“Well, can't say that’s changed much. Demanding as always,” Eskel teases, and warmth blooms in his chest. _Eskel, Eskel_ , Eskel who hunted for him, relentless, deviating from his own Path to aid in his own, stayed out past winter to see this through. Who saved Roach, traveled with a Black Sun child despite his history with Deidre years before, who’s _here_.

“Should I pass that along?” Yennefer’s voice is a murmur more meant for him than Eskel, but she doesn’t mean to leave him out of their transactions either, speaking out loud to his benefit.

Please, he thinks, unable—or more to the point, unwilling to hide his heart away from Eskel.

“He’s very glad to see you, Eskel, and loves you very much,” she says, more honestly and direct than Geralt himself would have said. But it’s the truth all the same, and he’s glad to have the words voiced. Eskel deserves to hear them.

Eskel spares a glance at Yennefer, the only hint of surprise belayed in his wide, curious gaze, then turns to clasp Geralt behind his horns and ears, as he would have in greeting under any other circumstance. Geralt rises to his feet, dips his head to meet him. Their foreheads pressed together and Eskel’s eyes shut, they breathe each other in with all the familiarity and comfort of the hundred years between them. “Love you too, you dolt. Roach missed you, you know.”

Geralt huffs.

Eskel pulls away and, with a shy glance in Yennefer’s direction before proceeding, kisses his forehead. It’s over in an instant, but delight curls in his belly.

“I missed you too,” Eskel says finally.

Tiny, frantic footsteps patter in from the hall. He and Eskel both turn toward the noise just as Ciri barges in.

“Dinner!” she shouts to the room at large.

Her eyes roam the room, land on Geralt. She darts forward and presses her hand in his face. “Look,” she says, waving it. “I burned myself on the oven. Jaskier said he’d probably get in trouble, but told me to go to Triss anyways.” The skin is pink and blotchy and will probably be gone by morning.

Geralt snorts, and Yennefer chuckles beside him. “Oh, he’ll be in trouble alright. Go show Triss, little bird.”

Eskel hums, not yet rising from his seat with Triss, Tissaia, and Renfri preoccupied with humoring Ciri. “What’s the deal there, Geralt? A kid up in this old place?”

“His surprise child, actually,” Yennefer answers for him.

He whips his head around to look at Geralt. “The—” His voice takes on a strangled, choked quality. “That’s the lion cub of Cintra? And she, what, just showed up here?”

“As destiny would have it,” Yennefer says dryly, “yes.”

“There’s rumors about her. Most say she’s dead.” Eskel stares at Ciri now, in new light.

“You know better than to believe rumor, don’t you?”

Eskel shakes his head, looking back at Geralt. “You,” he proclaims, “have had a much more interesting year than I did.”

Boring is good.

Yennefer echos the thought for him out loud.

“I’ll say,” Eskel says warily. “Any more surprises I should know about?”

Geralt and Yennefer share an instinctive look and a collective thought. Jaskier’s song cycle reverberates through their head—A Vampire’s Feast, both of them, its hook too fresh in mind and too catchy to be ignored. Geralt throws his head back and rasps a strange, barking laughter, and Yennefer laughs in full force. Let Eskel find out for himself, their whirlwind of a bard rhapsodizing about witchers.

“Now I’m _really_ worried,” Eskel says, except it’s not worry in his scent at all, but rosy fondness saturating the air between them so thickly Geralt may never get the scent out of his nose again. Not that he particularly wants to.

Love is a good scent on them.

\---

Renfri’s _everything_ knots together like a mangled string pulled taut. She may as well have left a few organs back in Temeria, for all she feels now. She tries to explain the sensation to a fretting Triss and cool, observant, and prodding Tissaia.

“Head between your knees—yes, floor might be better, there you go,” Tissaia says, giving her a hand down. Her skin is smooth and cool to the touch, and she puts a hand to her forehead. “Hmm. Go ahead and sniff this for me, tell me if you feel better in a minute.”

Renfri takes the proffered flower, cups it in one hand and brings it up to sniff once before dutifully dropping her head between her knees. She doesn’t recognize the plant, but it’s fragrant and not unpleasant.

She closes her eyes and breathes.

Triss scoots over one chair, dress brushing Renfri’s leg as she readjusts. “I know most people have a bad reaction their first time through a portal, but this is more extreme than I’ve ever seen it. I wonder if it might be some sort of allergy, though how that would work…” Triss hums, trailing off to be lost in her own thoughts.

“Never heard of an allergy to magic before,” she chokes out. She’s really not at her best, but Triss seems… nice.

“Well, now you have.” Triss stops, drinks another phial down of whatever Tissaia keeps serving her. “Uck, what did you put in that one?”

“Best you don’t know,” Tissaia says.

There’s a pregnant pause before Triss continues. “Anyway, I have an allergy myself. Can’t consume any potions—not with magic involved in the brewing process. Oh—huh, is that what that's for?”

“Yes. Worth the taste of it?”

Triss makes an undecided sort of groan.

Renfri’s insides feel… marginally less twisted. She angles the cupped flower closer to her nose and breathes deeply.

“That helping?” Triss’s voice is closer now, probably leaning in to check on her.

“Mhmm.”

“Well, you’ve lost that greenish-greyish tinge. Better color than the undead now, at least,” Triss says.

“Better looking than a drowner? High praise,” she rasps.

A cup is shoved under her nose. She recoils, and the flower flutters to her feet, but it’s only a cupful of water. She thinks.

Taking the cup, she sniffs the contents just in case, and Tissaia laughs, unrepentant. “Just water, princess. Drink. You too, Triss,” she says, standing up. “Next dose.”

“Uck,” Triss garbles.

Renfri would laugh, but Tissaia catches her eye. “You’re next,” she promises.

She’d rather not, but her stomach feels less sloshy than an ocean storm now, which is high praise compared to her earlier state. She’ll take what she’s given.

\---

Yennefer dawdles, letting Eskel and Geralt walk on ahead with Ciri. Triss lags behind, catching her arm and trailing kisses from her cheek to mouth. Their last kiss lingers, Triss smiling against her as their breaths mingle.

“Mm, what’s the occasion?” Yennefer says, though she hardly needs an excuse.

Triss tugs her hand and guides it to her hair—

Her hair. Which is growing back in as they speak. “Oh!”

“And the burns are disappearing, just a little.”

“They may never go away entirely.” Tissaia warns, and her hand snakes to Yennefer’s shoulder. “It’s been so long, and even if we caught it promptly…”

They were deep. Triss came too close for comfort.

“You did well. Both of you,” Tissaia tells them. “The worst of it will disappear, with time. Let me handle the rest.”

A string of tension in her relaxes. It was hard not to be affected by Tissaia’s easy confidence, and Yennefer was one of many whose belief in her, one of the most competent sorceresses the Brotherhood had to offer, had only grown with time.

“Dinner?” Triss offers, a hand at her back.

They walk, carving a familiar path across the castle. Jaskier is chattering away already, voice carrying to the bottom of the stairs.

Between Ciri and Jaskier, the exuberance of the more extroverted inhabitants of the castle firmly coaxes Eskel, Renfri, and Tissaia into conversation as they dine on generous helpings of meat and sprigs of savory that had survived the growing frost. She sits between Triss and Tissaia, across from Geralt who keeps a generous eye on her and her hands. His attunement to her needs is a comfortable blanket, his thoughts offering scent and sensation like nothing she could perceive with her own senses. 

Joy, contentment, and relaxation radiates from the room.

Then, Jaskier sings.

He opens with Siren Song with a wink at Geralt and Eskel both, stationed so close as to nearly be on top of one another. His lute rings clearly in the open room, and voice carries as if on stage. He clears one, two, three more songs—of adventures and derisive battles, and Yennefer (or perhaps it’s Geralt, leaking through) lives for the expressions of disbelief that keep manifesting on Eskel’s face. He gets twitchier with each song, eyebrow disappearing into his fringe, and muttered exclamations as Jaskier goes into detail of just how a hunt came to pass.

And then comes The Song of the White Wolf. The hall is silent, bar his words and lute and the howl of the wind across shattered glass. It’s not only Eskel enraptured, for Jaskier, while he had strummed the melody idly in his days here, has yet to sing it for herself or Geralt. Her breath is caught in her throat.

Halfway through the song, Triss stands up and joins him.

Geralt’s head flicks to look at Yennefer, the question readily apparent even without his thoughts in her head. She shakes her head discreetly. No, she didn’t know either. 

Their split-second exchange falls away in favor of watching (and second-hand watching) Jaskier and Triss sing together, harmonizing beautifully together. Practiced. After the first line, Ciri joins in from the table, her voice elfin and bright.

Their voices and bodies dance around each other, seamless. Triss’s hair bobs furiously with their rapid turns as she accentuates Jaskier on the lute until the song’s close. She’s breathing harder than Jaskier is, but both are beaming. Jaskier takes her hand, pushing the lute aside, and the two bow to their audience, hand in hand.

Eskel is the first to clap. The rest of their table is fast to follow, Geralt nosing into Jaskier’s doublet with wonderment. Triss sits down beside her, and Yennefer grasps blindly for a moment, Geralt’s attention otherwise occupied. Triss catches her hand, settles it on her cheek.

“That was beautiful, my heart,” she says reverently.

Triss’s breath tickles her skin. “Thank you, my star.”

“When—while the two of you gardened?”

“Of course. Jaskier wanted it to be a surprise. The first song of the cycle. Remember him saying how he could never get it quite right?”

“And then,” she says with increased clarity, “he didn't say another word about it, one way or another. The duet?”

“He needed another voice,” she says, a hint shy.

She leans in even closer. “Perfect,” she murmurs against Triss’s skin, breaths angled toward the shell of her ear. “You were perfect.”

A light titter, and Triss kisses her in thanks. Quick presses of lips to skin, paving her way to her mouth.

Jaskier plays another three songs as the evening draws to a close, almost ending on A Vampire’s Feast, the song about bruxa habits pointedly directed toward Eskel, who looks between the bard and his muse with thinly veiled amusement, needling glances of disbelief and good humor sent along from Geralt’s mind to hers.

As Jaskier moves to put down his lute, Geralt sends a very intentionally bundled thought her way. She concurs wholeheartedly.

“Jaskier,” she says, looking foggily in his direction. “Would you do us the kindness to play The Song of the White Wolf once more?”

“Certainly, my lady. I am at your command.” Jaskier bows, a movement she sees in full clarity through Geralt’s attentions, and he and Triss perform the piece again.

They’re beautiful. Beautiful.

\---

Jaskier sings his heart out over dinner. Geralt can hardly take his eyes off him, and neither can half the table for that matter.

Their revelries, attention, and praise sate something deep inside him. He looks across the table and _loves_ , loves each of them exactly as they are. In this moment, he flies. This moment he could preserve in amber and press against his heart and never be cold again.

Night dims the landscape, casts everything into a dark haze of shadowed delight as they warm to each other’s idiosyncrasies. Renfri falls asleep at the table, and Eskel picks her up, takes her to bed—Yennefer’s, at her insistence. It’s a forgone conclusion that they’ll be sharing a bed tonight. He and Triss can’t contain their giddiness, riding the high of their debut, and none of the four of them fancy separating, not tonight.

Tomorrow, well. The little circle of isolation and peace they’ve saturated themselves in breaks apart like crumbs of stale bread. Not a bad thing at all, for the denouement of Geralt’s curse, a curtainfall. But Jaskier would be the first to admit enjoying his time here, and tomorrow, he thinks—tomorrow this shall all come to a head.

But for now, they fall in with each other with practiced ease, clothes shucked and folded, shoes cast aside. Yennefer applies Triss’s salve, and Jaskier combs Yennefer's hair, hand at the base of her curls with a tender touch, meandering higher up the strand with each pass as his fingers strain through snares.

Geralt sits behind them, his fur and bulk a cascading heat that touches them all.

Triss eases into Yennefer’s hands with a happy sigh. Her skin looks near enough to healed, no longer red and cracked. Jaskier knew to expect it from their talk, but it’s still awe-inspiring, what a well-resourced mage can accomplish in but a day.

Jaskier takes longer with Yennefer’s hair than the ointments slathered across half Triss’s upper body. Perhaps it’s a nod to Yennefer’s efficiency and the frequency of the job, but it says just as much about Jaskier’s care not to tug, to tease each wave of hair apart with no more force exerted than to pet a butterfly.

Yennefer appreciates his diligence, and wiping her hands across her forearms, she slinks into his chest. Jaskier chuckles as she traps her hair against him, out of reach. With one hand at her nape, he kisses her cheek then shifts her to prop against Geralt, who sits up obligingly. Triss, dress back on, turns to them and helps Jaskier finish the job.

It doesn’t take much longer, and Yennefer, putty in their hands, snuggles close and kisses them each in turn—Triss on the mouth, Jaskier at the corner of his, where his beard grows in, scratchy, and Geralt at his shoulder.

Geralt lays down, his paws and muzzle at the pillows, tail drooping over the edge of the bed. Jaskier presses into his side, suspecting idly that he’ll wake from overheating at least once during the night, in spite of the cold, but how could he mind it when it’s the purest manifestation of the antithesis of his fears? He’s the farthest thing from alone with Yennefer bundled in his arms, Triss at the cusp of his grasp, and Geralt to his back.

Warm, together—not cold, not alone. They sleep.

\---

Yennefer wakes to Jaskier trying to flee from under her, his arm her pillow overnight. She dips across his mind, feels the tingling in his arm, his full bladder, and his inkling at cooking them all a meal before the day’s worries etch themselves in too deeply, and she rolls off him and into Triss.

“Sorry,” she hisses, but now they’re all well and truly awake.

Geralt is already acting as her eyes, surveying his rumpled bedfellows with a glaze of fond amusement crossing his thoughts like a shadow of a circling bird.

“Ah, my mistake,” Jaskier says with a consolatory pat to her shoulder from his upright position towards the foot of the bed. “It’s quite early still, if you’d rather go back to sleep.”

Her thoughts flash to the castle’s other inhabitants—Tissaia, as early a riser as Triss, and Eskel, a witcher likely to rise with first light, the same as Geralt. Regardless of Renfri’s unknown status and Ciri sleeping in, it’s only economical to get up.

Even if Geralt’s fur is better than any blanket.

She drifts upright with a groan of protest to the room at large. Triss laughs, sleep-ridden and low in her throat, and they help each other up, out of bed. Jaskier makes his escape without further ado, lute in his arms and a wisp of a song under fingertip.

His humming drifts down the hall. She listens to the tune a moment longer through Geralt’s ears.

But they have a busy day ahead of them.


End file.
